Breaching the SpaceTime Continuum
by SeveRemus
Summary: Reese was shot on December 15, 2011, but did not return to "work" until 2012. What happened during his recovery? Character studies from varying POVs. Fluffy slash but nothing hardcore. Rated M to be safe. Spoilers for Number Crunch, of course.
1. Prologue

**Prologue – Setting the Stage **

2011/12/15, 20:50:19 – Shots fired on top level of St. George's Hospital parking garage. Connection to earlier shots fired on 3rd level of parking garage unknown; currently under investigation.

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><p>"Hold on," Finch told him as soon as Carter slammed the door shut. Reese had just enough time to grab the handle of the armrest and brace himself before the town car's tires squealed in a sharp right turn. He didn't know Finch could drive like that, punishing his luxury vehicle with such brutal abandon, but knowing that every second and every little bit of distance that they could put between themselves and their pursuers counted, he was glad to discover that Finch was, indeed, capable of driving like a madman.<p>

_**My**__ pursuers_, he corrected silently in his mind. _They're not after Finch – they don't even know he exists, and never will... at least not if I can help it. Assuming that Carter doesn't tell them..._

He hoped desperately that his gut – the metaphorical part of it, rather than the physical part, which was burning up with pain at the moment – was right, and that Carter would not divulge the fact that he had a partner to the Agency. Although the name she knew would be an alias (no doubt already disposed of), the description would be a far more useful tool for Mark to use in hunting down the man Reese had come to know as Harold Finch. Carter, having interviewed the man at length as well as being a trained police officer, would be able to provide a deadly accurate description if she so decided.

Reese winced, the searing pain in his thigh and abdomen threatening to blind his other senses. Perhaps the pain was clouding his judgment... perhaps, in his effort to block out the physical pain, he was also blocking out the delicate sensory input that his mind processed to make those judgment calls.

_What if I'm wrong? What if Carter tells Mark about Harold? _

Drawing a ragged breath, Reese gasped, "You shouldn't have come... Too big... a risk..."

"Just hold on, John," Finch demanded, although his voice was trembling. "Hold on a bit longer..."

When he had put enough distance between them that he deemed it impossible for the agents to pinpoint their car, even with a vehicle description from Carter (for Finch did not suffer from Reese's optimism), he pulled into a dark alley around the corner from a convenience store. Turning off the lights but leaving the engine running, he hobbled around to the rear to check on Reese's injuries for the first time.

"Take these," Finch said, shaking out two pills from a prescription bottle which he had snatched out of the console compartment. "I'll get you some water in a minute, but they'll take the edge off the pain."

Reese managed to swallow them down while Finch unbuttoned the lower half of his bloodied shirt, wincing at the sight of the gaping wound.

"The blood looks clean... let's hope it didn't puncture your G.I. tract," he muttered, pressing his white handkerchief against the hole. "Can you keep pressure on it?"

"Sure. If the drugs don't make me... pass out," Reese rasped.

"Where else were you hit?" Finch asked, squinting in the dim light.

"Right leg. Use my belt... as tourniquet," Reese mumbled, removing his right hand, which had already been pressing down on that wound. Finch quickly removed the belt from his trousers and tightened it above both the entry and exit wounds in Reese's thigh.

"You should lie down – conserve your strength," he said, wiping the blood off of his hands on his pinstripe suit. "I'll go get some supplies at the store and... then I'll figure out where to take you for treatment."

"No! No hospital," Reese declared, his eyes flashing open with sudden clarity. "They'll find us..."

"I'm quite aware of that, Mr. Reese," Finch said, trying to calm him and at the same time get him to lie down on the back seat. "Trust me, I'll think of something... someplace they won't think to look for us. And with enough money, I can ensure our... privacy."

Reese was beginning to feel the effects of the medication, and decided to let Finch have his way for now. He was simply so... tired. He heard Finch shut the car door and, in the ensuing silence, began to replay the events of the night. The two hit-men (one a hit-woman) sent after the girls had been taken care of, so that was all right. The problem had started when Carter had shown up with none other than Mark Snow.

_No... the problem was, I'd called to let her know where I'd be without figuring out how long it would take me to finish the job_, he analyzed, focusing on the problem in his mind in an effort to ignore the pain coursing through his body. _I didn't calculate on her getting there before I left... Even without Mark, she could've tried to arrest me... That was... stupid..._

Wincing at the thought, Reese replayed the exact moment the pain had hit.

_He must've had a sniper on the next building over_, he decided, remembering how the impact had spun him. _He knew I'd park on the top level to reconnoiter the area, and set it up before I was even finished with the two downstairs... He let me finish the job while he set up the trap for me... Damn bastard! Carter would've tried to stop me right away – kept me from shooting the perps so she could arrest them, like a good cop. No wonder she let me go... she wanted to __**arrest**__ me, not __**shoot**__ me... I guess I've got too much of the Agency in my blood_, he thought mirthlessly. _Shoot first, cover up later. I'm lucky Carter's got too much Upstanding Citizen in __**her**__ blood..._

Finch returned, opening the driver's side rear door and fumbling with a drink bottle in his hands.

"Here, take a sip of this... You've lost a lot of blood," he said, lifting Reese's head just enough so that he could swallow the sweet drink without choking. "I don't want to make you bleed out any more, but you need _some_thing..."

Placing the bottle in the cup holder, Finch then shrugged out of his suit coat and folded it, fashioning a pillow of sorts to place under Reese's head. He extended the center seat belt until it would fit around Reese's middle – including the hand that was still pressing against the wound in his abdomen – and placed a paper sack on the floor in front of him before getting back in the driver's seat.

"I have to stop by one of my safe houses to pick up a few things," Finch explained, almost to himself, "but I have an idea who might be able – and willing, for a few dollars – to patch you up."

Reese only grunted in assent, his eyelids feeling inordinately heavy from the painkillers, but at least the pain was manageable now.

"Just hold on a little longer," Finch whispered. "Stay with me a little bit longer, John..."


	2. Chapter 1  Dr Farouk Madani

**Chapter 1 – (Dr.) Farouk Madani **

2011/12/15, 23:18:16 – Department of Coroner, Medical Examiner's Office

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><p>I would have done it, even without the money. Regardless of having a license or not, I am a doctor, and I chose my profession because I wanted to help people. I had sworn to Allah that I would use my skills to ease human suffering to the best of my ability. Having an injured man brought before me, in dire need of medical help, how could I not do all within my power to treat him?<p>

But the money bought my silence. That, of course, was what the rich man wanted: "No questions asked." And I know enough from experience – both in Iraq and in America – that when a man is injured by bullets and he has rich, powerful friends who do not want questions asked, one does not ask those questions, or one risks incurring similar injuries by bullets. So I silently began the task of treating the patient's injuries.

If I did not have to concentrate so hard on the delicate procedures, I might have become angry at the rich man's demand. He had come into the morgue, pretending to belong in my workplace, with information about me which bared my life almost as much as the cadavers brought in naked for an autopsy. He had dumped an obscene amount of US dollars (declining in value, and yet still the most sought-after currency in the world) on my table, then stepped back, _assuming_ that I would be bought for the price of a license to do his bidding.

Rich, powerful men are all the same, regardless of color or country – they think that any man can be bought, as long as the price is right. Well, they think wrong. Or at least, I was not "any man," or I would not have been forced to flee my native country to wield a scalpel only on the dead, making a meager wage compared to what my colleagues in the hospitals made – some of them not even as careful with their patients as I.

Oh, yes... I have seen some of their handiwork. Patients ravaged by cancer, patched together with not even a thought for their comfort or dignity. The scars from their sutures spoke louder than any toxicology report: their physicians cared not for their well-being, once they knew how little time they had to live. They did as little as possible, merely to collect the money from the surgery, and moved on to other, more lucrative patients. It angered me that some of them were still allowed to practice medicine when they did more harm than good – increasing the suffering of those already dying – with their supposed "treatment." _Insha'Allah_, may there be justice for those who suffer needlessly at the hands of such vultures!

But as I worked on the injured man, the rich man tried to assist me, and I noticed that he, too, was injured, although his were old and accustomed to. His labored movements told me of the severity of his injuries, for even with the best medicine America had to offer (and with the money he had at his disposal, no doubt it had been the _very_ best medicine) he was not able to overcome the lingering effects. He must have sensed my eyes on him as he took away the bloody towel, for he gave me a sharp look of reprimand as he returned. Yes, of course: "No questions asked." I focused my attention on the bleeding man lying on the gurney.

This man was an open book. He was a soldier, as every shrapnel scar and healed gunshot wound declared. To my query, the rich man answered that he had been given two painkillers an hour before, but that would have merely dulled the pain; still, the soldier was awake, even alert for the most part, bearing the added pain of the stitching without a word of complaint. Here was a fighter, one who knew how to forge through the pain if necessary. He was silent now only in order to save his strength. I had no doubt that if the men who had shot him burst into the room, he would be on his feet in an instant, ready to fight back.

So, I had a rich man, injured some time in the past, who was willing to pay a small fortune to have the soldier treated for gunshot wounds by a man whose silence (he assumed) could be bought. What kind of trouble were they involved in? Drugs? Most likely, although the rich man did not seem like the type – but then again, even the rich needed someone to supply them with their drugs, did they not? And perhaps the soldier was his bodyguard or runner. Perhaps it had been an altercation with a rival drug supplier. They all seemed to have guns these days, even the boys who peddled it to their fellow schoolchildren.

I finished suturing the entry wound on the front of the soldier and indicated that I would have to roll him on his side to treat the exit wound on his back. The soldier attempted to move himself but the rich man stopped him.

"John, don't – just rest now," he scolded, pulling away the soldier's hand from the railing which it had gripped in preparation for the effort.

Between the rich man and I, we were able to reposition him without much trouble, since the soldier (though tall) was lean. The rich man kept his hands on the soldier's back, supporting him while I cleaned the wound and began my work. As I stood next to him, I realized that he was trembling – ever so slightly, and yet, there it was: the first hint that this man was human, after all, despite his uncanny knowledge of my situation and ruthless determination to take advantage of it. I squinted as I sutured a particularly badly frayed piece of the soldier's flesh, and realized that the rich man's strange demeanor did not come from an imperious assumption of my acquiescence, but from something much more common, much more basic, which I should have recognized much sooner: _fear_.

He was afraid that the soldier would die – afraid that I would not be able to give him the treatment that he needed. Compared to that fear, the fear that I might not comply with his wishes had been secondary, or maybe not even worth considering. He had brought a bagful of money, unceremoniously dumping it on my table in the hopes that it would buy my silence, but even that was irrelevant if I could not save the soldier. The money itself was worthless to him unless it could buy the other man's life. Had I thought or even wished to make such a demand, he probably would have brought more.

So then, the soldier was more than a hired mercenary, or even a business partner. They could not be brothers, as there was nothing in their features to suggest even a remote familial resemblance. Friends, then? Possibly. But remembering how agitated the rich man had been when he had first made his demand – and it _had_ been agitation, I saw now – how his eyes could not be wrenched away from the soldier for more than a second, roving from one wound to the other and then back to the pallor of his face... I hit upon the truth: they were lovers.

Such shameful things were forbidden in my country, and those found guilty of such perversity were soon punished by their family, community, and law; however, in America they were allowed to live freely in their sin, even to demand celebrations of their strange obsession. I felt my flesh crawl as I thought of these two men doing that which was against nature, but swallowed down my disgust. The man before me was bleeding and in pain – my responsibility was to ensure that he would heal from his wounds, nothing more nor less. What Allah required of him in the Judgment after death was none of my concern.

Finally finished with the largest of his injuries, I placed clean bandages over it and taped them securely. Once the soldier was resting on his back again, the rich man hobbled to the sink and returned with dampened paper towels, which he used to gently wipe the sweat from the soldier's face.

"He is lucky that the bullet did not penetrate his intestines," I said as I worked on his thigh wound, worried that they might begin to show more effusive signs of their unholy affection and hoping to prevent it. "A few centimeters to the inside, and not even the best ER in the city could have saved him."

"Not luck," the soldier replied, startling both of us. "He wasn't... aiming to kill."

"Oh, of course... how considerate of him," the rich man said with bitter sarcasm.

"We were trained... hit right there... Least amount of... _permanent_ damage... but... high yield of pain. Supposed to... _incapacitate_... subject..."

"Hush," the rich man whispered, taking one of the soldier's bloody hands and wiping it with the paper towel. "At least you're still alive... and I plan to keep it that way. Just relax, and let me take care of this."

There was a part of me that was repulsed by the tenderness conveyed by those words, but at the same time I could not remain unmoved by what they were going through. It was obvious that the soldier was the stronger of the two, ordinarily, but with him "incapacitated" as it were, the rich man was struggling to provide the strength and fortitude they both needed to get through this ordeal. I continued to stitch away at the front of the soldier's thigh, relieved to find that the bullet had not nicked his bone. I had already ascertained that it had not hit his femoral artery – if it had, he would have been dead by the time he had been rolled into the morgue.

The rich man finally stopped his nervous cleaning of the soldier's hands, and now simply held them in his own. The gesture reminded me of a time in Najaf, when a man was brought in with an acute case of Volvulus – a rare, dangerous condition in which a portion of intestine twists upon itself and must be surgically corrected, even removed. As the pain had seized him in the ride to the hospital, he had gripped his wife's hands so tightly that even placed under anesthesia, he had not released them. The wife begged me to allow her to stand by her husband during the surgery, so I had the nurses cover her _burqa_ with a sterile sheet. She stood there, praying under her breath, for the entire three hours it took to treat her husband. When we were ready to wheel him out to the recovery room, she had collapsed, but had still not removed her hands from his.

It was the same sense of oneness, of unity, that I perceived from the two men in my morgue now. They needed each other as life and breath, as necessary as blood and bone and flesh. I could not understand how this could be, and yet, undeniably, it was so. I had completed the stitching required on the front of the soldier's leg, and motioned to the rich man that we would have to roll him again, this time on his other side – the side with the abdominal wound. It would not be pleasant for the soldier.

"Do you need more medication?" the rich man asked him, already pulling out a prescription bottle.

"No... No more drugs," the soldier said, his voice soft yet sure. "Don't worry – I've had far worse before."

The calmness with which he delivered the statement was what unnerved me. It was not an empty boast, but a certitude born of experience. Earlier, I had seen some tell-tale scars on his chest as I had cleaned it with disinfectant, and what I had suspected then, I now knew as a fact: this man had been tortured. He was more than a common soldier – he was a survivor.

As I began stitching the last open wound on his body, I saw some of his muscles tense, ever so slightly. The medication must have worn off. But the man merely took deeper breaths to master the pain, and after a moment – since he was facing the rich man, who was holding him on his side – he began to speak in a low tone meant only for his lover.

"Harold, I almost forgot to tell you... the girls are all right."

"Of course they are... I wouldn't have expected any less of you," the rich man replied, his overly gruff manner belying the depth of his emotion. He might even have been holding back tears.

"They're safe now... They can take care of their mom's house."

At the first mention of "girls," my hands had almost stopped their work, for I thought these men might be human traffickers. But I immediately realized that a man who traded in human flesh would not think to report on the safety of his _commodity_ while having his bullet wounds sewn together. No, those sorts of men would give no thought to other human lives while their own bodies were wracked with pain. I chastised myself for even suspecting such a thing, and realized, as I continued working on the soldier's leg, that I had come to respect and admire him in so short a time. And when he said that they were "safe," I found myself believing him.

"I'm sorry, Harold..." he whispered. "I shouldn't have called Carter... It's all my fault..."

"John, never mind that now!"

"But she _saw_ you," he insisted. "If I hadn't screwed up, she would've never known..."

"John, just... try to rest," the rich man sighed, placing one hand tenderly on his lover's face. "It will all work out, I promise. You just need to concentrate on getting better..."

"Thank you, Harold... for coming to rescue me."

This time, the trembling in the rich man's body was too obvious for either of us to miss. He grasped the soldier's hands again in an effort to stop it, or at least make it less noticeable, but he could not trust his voice to speak without betraying him. So he simply gripped his lover's hands, without another word, until I had finished stitching and bandaging him.

I went along to help the rich man get his lover into his car – an expensive car, with bloodstains now on the back seat – but was startled when the soldier tried to stand on his one good leg.

"No, don't try – not yet!" I hastily cautioned. "There are too many muscles connected from the thigh to the abdomen and you could rip out the stitches. They have tools for getting in and out of a wheelchair – they sell them at most medical supply stores – but for now, we use this."

I pulled out an old backboard (a discontinued model that had somehow been left in our building) and lowered the gurney he was on until I could slide him down along the backboard onto the passenger seat. The rich man had moved into the driver's seat to assist from inside, and directed me on how to move the seat back and recline it as far as possible. That allowed the tall soldier to lie in relative comfort.

"Here, take this – we don't need it," I said, placing the old backboard in the car. "You will have someone to help you get him out, yes?" I checked.

"Yes, plenty of strong men," the rich man assured me.

"That is good. Take care of my first living patient in America," I told him with a grin, adding, "Your secrets are safe with me. Go in peace."

"Thank you, doctor," the rich man said, his eyes warm and human.

The soldier reached for my hand and clasped it. "Thank you," he echoed, his voice soft but his grip strong, adding, "_Wa alaikum as-salaam_."

Yes, indeed – _insha'Allah_, may peace abound to us all.


	3. Chapter 2 Marty DeYoung Part 1

**Chapter 2 – Martin "Marty" DeYoung**, Part 1

2011/12/16, 02:01:09 – Finch Estate, Southampton (Village), New York

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><p>AN: I've created names for the two bodyguards – Marty DeYoung is the bigger guy.

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><p>I'd just started watching an old "Bonanza" rerun when the phone rang, making me start out of the leather recliner. I caught it on the second ring, knowing instinctively who it was: only Mr. Finch would be calling at this late hour.<p>

"DeYoung here," I answered, a thousand questions racing through my mind.

"I'm about thirty minutes from the house," Mr. Finch began without preamble. Something about his tone instantly set me on edge. "I need you to meet me out front with the wheelchair, and we may require Mr. Doherty's assistance as well."

"Are you hurt?" I asked, alarmed. If he'd stumbled and fallen, his old injuries could've flared up...

"No, Mr. DeYoung – _I'm_ not the one in need of the wheelchair," he responded, with a trace of... nervousness? worry? _fear?_ in his voice. "Mr. Reese has been injured in a... a most unfortunate accident. Is the first floor bedroom in order?"

"It's exactly as you left it, Sir," I answered, swallowing down my natural response. That _bum_ had been in an accident, and Mr. Finch was bringing him _here?_

"Very good, Mr. DeYoung. I'll see you in a bit."

After he'd hung up, I stood staring at the receiver for a long moment. So. He was still... _consorting_, for lack of a better term, with that alcoholic bum. Sure, the guy had some skills – he'd knocked both Jim and me out of commission for a minute with one swipe of his paw, during which time he'd made good his escape – but I couldn't understand why Mr. Finch would prefer to use _him_ for whatever project he was working on rather than one or both of _us_. We'd been in his service for years and had proven our loyalty as well as our discretion. The bum might have some military training in his background, but he was an unknown, a loose cannon. His alcoholism alone should have raised warning flags... and yet Mr. Finch insisted that he was the right man for "the job." What that job entailed, I had no way of knowing, but now it seemed like the bum had screwed it up somehow and gotten himself hurt. Why Mr. Finch wanted to take care of such a liability, even bring him into his home, was beyond me... although maybe he felt responsible for the guy getting hurt. That had to be it – Mr. Finch was nothing if not responsible towards his employees.

Remembering that he'd mentioned maybe needing Jim, too, I went to wake up my coworker so he'd be ready. He grumbled a bit, and I couldn't resist telling him what all I'd heard. He was just as incredulous as I was that our employer was bringing that guy here. The first floor bedroom Mr. Finch had referred to was where he'd recovered from his own injuries, over months of rehabilitation, and it was still set up with the hospital bed and other medical instruments. Whatever injuries the bum had incurred, it sounded like he was in for a long recovery.

While Jim was getting dressed, I went downstairs and turned on the lights in that bedroom to make sure it was ready for the new patient. I even lowered one of the handrails so we could get the guy up into it more easily, although I shook my head in dismay. I couldn't believe we had to do _that_ again! After the bum had given us the slip on that street corner, Mr. Finch had somehow managed to track him down to a cheap hotel and had us move him to the Ritz-Carlton (of all places!) using a wheelchair and some ether. Personally, I didn't think the ether was necessary, since there was another almost-empty bottle of whiskey on the floor next to his bed, but I'd used it anyway, not wanting to risk getting clouted by him again. It had been a backbreaking job moving his dead weight into the wheelchair, then into the car, back into the wheelchair, and into (or at least, onto) the bed at the Ritz. I wasn't looking forward to repeating any of that process tonight.

Thankfully, that last time, the bum had at least cleaned up before we'd caught up to him in the hotel – showered, cut his hair, and shaved his beard. When we'd picked him up earlier at the police station, the smell of filth and alcohol on him had been almost overpowering. I'd glanced over at Jim incredulously as the bum had walked past me to the rear of the Lincoln, since the whiff I'd caught of him had nearly knocked me over. The drive to the park where we'd left Mr. Finch was even worse, since we were trapped in an enclosed space with the heaters going – then I couldn't believe that Mr. Finch actually got _into_ the car _with_ him. I made sure the vents were open full blast, but even so, Sam (the driver) had to use baking soda and vinegar to get the stench out afterwards.

Waiting for Mr. Finch's car to arrive now, I hoped that the bum was still clean and had not gone back to his wino ways. For that matter, I _really_ hoped that he hadn't screwed up whatever he was doing for Mr. Finch because of his drinking. That would be... unforgiveable. To have someone like Mr. Finch give him a second chance at life, and then to waste that golden opportunity because he couldn't give up his addiction? He didn't deserve to have his injuries treated, if that were the case. Mr. Finch might be too kind to let him go, but that didn't mean I couldn't try to talk some sense into him – convince him to put the guy's sorry ass in some rehab facility or half-way house and be done with him. Of course, Mr. Finch is my boss, so he's not under any obligation to listen to my advice... and he certainly does seem to have a blind spot the size of Texas when it comes to the bum he calls Mr. Reese.

That night, when we'd moved the sleeping bum (or he could have just been passed out from drinking) to the Ritz, Mr. Finch had seemed pleased to find him relatively clean-cut and dressed in a new set of clothes – no doubt from the Salvation Army store near the other hotel. Mr. Finch had an old photo of the guy from his military days, and was comparing his face to it as I handcuffed his left hand to the headboard with vinyl cord. He looked older, more haggard, than he did in the photo, and definitely had more gray in his hair, but it had probably been a good ten years, maybe even fifteen, since the picture had been taken. Plus, living on the streets with cheap whiskey for company didn't do a man any favors.

"Thank you, gentlemen. You may both take the rest of the night off," Mr. Finch had said, his eyes still on the unconscious bum.

I really didn't want to leave Mr. Finch alone in the room with that... that _animal_, but he'd insisted. What could I do? He was my boss, and he paid me (very handsomely) to do exactly what he said. My only consolation was that I'd made sure the guy's hand was bound nice and tight to the wooden frame. As Jim exited the room ahead of me, I turned around to catch one last look of Mr. Finch and almost gasped at what I saw – he was leaning over the bum, stroking the guy's cheek with his knuckles as though he'd found some long-lost brother! Then he straightened, so I turned away quickly, pretending to go over the checklist of things he'd asked us to bring one last time. I let Mr. Finch know that I would leave my cell phone on all night in case he needed me, but he never did call. The next thing I knew, "Mr. Reese" was on his list of employees as well.

It galled me to know that the bum was being entrusted with some project that was, apparently, very near and dear to Mr. Finch's heart. Our boss had kept a regular schedule – well, as regular as it could be when he randomly switched up where he spent the night, jumping from one apartment to another – as soon as he had recovered from his accident, and went in to work downtown almost like clockwork. He did get carried away, sometimes, with whatever it was that he did on the computer at night, and had to go in late or take a personal day, but most weekdays Sam would drop him off at one corner or another, and either Jim or I would tail him to make sure he arrived safely at his workplace. Then one day, not long after he'd hired the bum, he stopped going in to work altogether. Instead, he asked to be dropped off near the abandoned library where he'd had us set up some of his computer equipment – with a "No need to follow me, gentlemen." – which was obviously where he was doing whatever it was that he needed the bum for. That left the two of us guarding his mansion in the Hamptons – guarding the _empty house_, for pete's sake! Sure, there was the cook, Mrs. Stuckley, and Sam and his wife in the cottage; but basically, Jim and I had been reduced to human guard dogs at a house Mr. Finch rarely returned to.

We still took turns riding with Mr. Finch to and from his apartments every day, and kept up some semblance of order by taking shifts and doing rounds to check the premises, but it was painfully clear that the only reason he kept us on was because he didn't want to fire us. We were tried and true, after all, so he didn't want to part with us just yet. When Jim had suggested that he might be keeping us as backup, in case the bum didn't work out – or got _injured_, it occurred to me just now – I'd gladly latched on to that thought to keep my spirits up; otherwise, it was too easy to get depressed, to worry that we'd been replaced by a newer, better model... even though it was hard to admit that the bum might be better than us at anything.

I hadn't told Jim what I'd seen at the hotel – Mr. Finch touching the bum's face, like he was something _special_ – because I knew what Jim would say: he'd tell me to quit mooning like a jilted schoolgirl with a crush. And although it made me bristle whenever he teased me like that, the sad part is, it's mostly true... I've grown to feel very protective of Mr. Finch. When I first came to work for him, years ago, Jim let me know that I was replacing a guy who'd gotten drunk at a bar and started talking about the rich, paranoid SOB who was paying him top dollar to guard his precious books and computers. Jim had been with him that night and tried to stop him, but with little success. The next time the guy showed up for work, Mr. Finch sent him packing – and Jim still swears that he wasn't the one who'd snitched on him. Somehow, Mr. Finch had found out, and it had scared the hell out of Jim. He'd toed the line ever since (with an ex-wife and three kids, he couldn't afford to lose this job) and I wasn't about to make the same mistake, either. Mr. Finch was not only a good employer, but he was also very... understanding. He'd known that I was gay before he'd interviewed me, but said that as long as I kept my private life separate from my job, it wouldn't be a problem. I'd had several boyfriends over the years, but I made sure that they never became an issue.

That's not why I'm so concerned for Mr. Finch, though – I mean, he's a nice-enough looking man, if a bit fastidious, but it irks me whenever Jim suggests that I have the hots for my boss, because that's not how I look at him at all. What keeps me (and Jim, too, I suspect) on my toes whenever I'm working for him now is the fact that his paranoia had been proven to be well-founded. I'll admit, I used to think his whole routine of getting dropped off at different locations to go to work, sleeping at a different apartment or house almost every night, and never taking the same route to get to the same place... ridiculous. He was just paranoid; it was an affectation, like some people always have to fold their clothes the same way. It was one of his quirks and nothing to take too seriously, although it kept us employed. But then... the accident had happened.

He'd survived it, and we'd taken care of him exactly as he'd told us to beforehand – because, of course, he'd had a contingency plan for every conceivable eventuality. But I still couldn't help the wave of emotions (mostly guilt) that had washed over me, and continued to affect me even after he'd come out of the woods and begun the long, slow process of physical therapy. He'd been injured on _my_ watch, after all. He must have sensed it... in fact, as Jim puts it, I was "an oozing mess of remorse and self-reproach, covered in penitence like a swamp monster is in slime," so even with his exaggeration aside, it was probably pretty obvious how bad I was feeling. Then one day when I was helping him back into bed after his therapy, Mr. Finch grabbed my hand and (for the only time that I can remember) called me by my first name.

"Thanks, Marty. I'm lucky that you got to me in time."

He called himself "lucky" after nearly getting killed, having to undergo multiple surgeries, and having his neck fused with titanium pins! And despite all the pain he was in, he still took the time to try to make _me_ feel better, even though I hadn't been able to do my job – not really, since I was supposed to protect him from getting hurt in the first place. But that's the kind of man Mr. Finch is, and I know that _I'm_ lucky to have been hired by him. It's truly an honor to work for a man like him – an honor I will never take for granted.

Going over all these thoughts in my mind, I waited by the front door, looking out through the etched glass for the tell-tale sign of headlights coming down the long driveway. I'd already rolled out the wheelchair from its place in the recovery bedroom by the time Jim came down the stairs to join me in my vigil. I wondered how badly the bum – Mr. Reese – had gotten hurt, and how; Jim was probably wondering the same thing, too. I wondered if Mr. Finch would let one of us take the guy's place now... and hoped with every fiber of my being that he'd choose me. I just wanted a chance to prove to him that I could do as well as some washed-up ex-army guy, especially one with a drinking problem. I just wanted to show Mr. Finch that I would do anything for him.

"Heads up," Jim said, having caught sight of the headlights first. I opened the door and rolled the wheelchair down the ramp to the end of the circular driveway, where I waited for Mr. Finch to pull up.


	4. Chapter 3 Harold Finch Part 1

**Chapter 3 – Harold Finch**, Part 1

2011/12/15, 21:17:40 – 7-11 on 8th Avenue, New York

* * *

><p>I walked into the convenience store hoping that nobody would notice the blood stains on my clothes. What was I thinking? This was New York. I could have run in there screaming that I'd witnessed a murder, and chances were good that nobody would have given me a second glance. I probably drew more stares from the fact that I was wearing a suit, but even that wasn't as disconcerting as it might have been, since it was still relatively early in the evening and there were enough suits making their way home from a hectic day at the office. I hoped that I looked like one of those as I tried to think what John needed in order to cope with his injuries.<p>

I picked up a bottle of Gatorade to help rehydrate him, although I knew that too much liquid could make him lose that much more blood from his open wounds. I grabbed a case of Boost, thinking he would need easily-digestible nutrition once he was patched up. But where on earth was I going to get him treated? Megan Tillman's face crossed my mind, but I didn't know if it would be wise to risk involving her – John had persuaded her to give up her claim on her sister's killer, of course, but what if she'd had second thoughts? She might not be disposed to give John the best medical attention if she'd reconsidered and decided that she would have rather done the deed herself. Besides, if she were working at the hospital, I couldn't risk taking John there – his "friends" at the Agency would arrive within minutes to finish the job.

No, I needed to take John somewhere else, someplace that had medical facilities but was not a hospital. A veterinary clinic? The thought irked me. No, I needed a doctor who worked on _people_, not animals – preferably someone with experience treating gunshot wounds. A private clinic, perhaps? I could look up a few on the laptop, perhaps find one with shady business dealings that I could blackmail, or one with shaky finances which I could simply buy out. Yes, that would be the way to go – that way John could rest in the facility until he was well enough to be moved to my house in the Hamptons. An expensive clinic for cosmetic surgery, perhaps – have him signed in under liposuction or some such. He would whine about it, of course, but at least he would be _safe_.

That was the main thing, now that the Agency knew that John was still alive. I tried to draw in a deep breath to calm myself as I picked up a package of disposable, flushable wipes – something I knew, from personal experience, that he would appreciate during his convalescence. I forced myself to believe that he _would_ recover, that he _would_ get better, because the alternative was unbearable. I realized that my hands were still shaking from the sight of so much blood on his clothes, seeping out of his body, but there wasn't much I could do about either at the moment, unfortunately. Somewhere along the line, during the past few months that I'd been working with him, John Reese had come to personify all of my hopes – for success as well as for personal redemption.

I'd come across his file while searching frantically for the right candidate for the job, after several miserable, failed attempts to intervene with the Numbers on my own. Most of his personal information had been redacted, but the lack of physical evidence for his death was intriguing. I hacked into the CIA mainframe to access those redacted files, and tried to suppress my growing excitement; however, the more I read about him, the more I felt that he was the _one_, the perfect man to assist me in my quest. It was almost... a visceral reaction, a gut feeling, a preternatural sense – before I had ever even met him – that this was _destiny_. And as if to confirm it, Fate had led him to me, right here in New York City. Living on the streets, down and out, trying (however unsuccessfully) to drown his sorrows in a never-ending row of bottles. A broken man, and yet... I just _knew_, that if I could reach past the alcohol-induced haze of self-condemnation and disillusionment, he would understand what I was trying to accomplish... that he would make my mission his own.

I tried to follow his erratic movements, hoping to find a moment of sobriety in which to approach him and make my pitch, but he was determined to keep himself from feeling anything – something to which I could relate very well. But I also knew (having come through that haze, myself) that there was no solution in ignoring the problem. Action, however limited and unsuccessful, was still a better option than inaction. And in one fateful moment, he _did_ spring into action – defending himself (or perhaps his bottle) from a gang of young punks on the subway. I watched the video footage with my mouth agape. Even as inebriated as he was, he moved like lightning, efficiently incapacitating the youths in a matter of seconds.

What truly caught my attention was when he had gripped the neck of the last one: he could have choked him to death or crushed his windpipe with his bare hand. But suddenly, he backed off, releasing the punk and staggering back in shock at what he had almost done. _"What the hell am I doing?"_ was the thought written clearly across his face, his eyes wide and staring. His trained reflexes had very nearly turned him into the killing machine that the Agency had wanted; his humanity and moral compass, however battered they might have been, had prevented him from devolving into that beast. I knew then, for sure, that he was the right man for the job – the job I offered him as soon as I was able to arrange for his rescue from the police station, to which he had gone like a lamb to the slaughter, opening not his mouth.

He hadn't accepted my offer at first, not that I'd expected him to – although I'd certainly not expected him to peg me for some sick stalker trying to con him into tailing a woman who had slighted me. But when he'd walked away, leaving both of my bodyguards blinded by pain with just one blow, he'd only proven his skills and planted in me a seed of almost desperate determination to convince him, whatever the cost, to join me in my enterprise. I'd hunted him down after squinting at literally hundreds of camera feeds, and had my men bring him to the room at the Ritz where one of the Numbers had been murdered by her husband for money. Her screams had haunted me ever since the night she had died, and I hoped that they would pierce through Mr. Reese's self-induced coma – awaken his dulled senses to reality, to life as well as to death – so that I could persuade him to try _living_ once again... if not for himself, for others.

Miraculously, or perhaps because it really _was_ his destiny, he'd listened. He'd agreed to jump down the rabbit hole and see where it led. It had almost been disastrous, for he'd walked into a meeting of thugs without realizing that the woman was not only _in_ on it, she was practically the _ringleader_. However, he'd managed to not only extricate himself from that predicament but also bring the criminals to justice. I offered him a way out of his current situation (it seemed only fair after his excellent performance in that case) but he had actually chosen to stay. To live, to fight, to do what good he could to make a difference, despite the overwhelming strength of the wrong. To not go gentle into that good night...

For it _had_ been tantamount to suicide, that relinquishing of himself to the police in the subway. He'd even allowed them to take his prints, which led to those redacted files and those men at the Agency who still wanted him dead – _really_ dead. And they _had_ caught up to him, eventually; what was surprising was that they hadn't caught up to him sooner... perhaps because of their arrogance in assuming that he was dead. Well, now they knew better, and they would never relent in their pursuit of him – to hunt him down, not to arrest him as Detective Carter had so naïvely supposed, but to kill him.

I couldn't let that happen. Not now, not ever. He meant too much to me, to the Cause – he had made my plan _work_ for the first time ever. Sure, there had been a few mistakes along the way, but by and large he was preventing those crimes of which the Machine was warning us, meting out justice to those who deserved it and making a difference in the lives of people – good people, like the judge who got his son back safely, or the childless aunt who had her dead niece raised to life again. John was able to do what all my knowledge and wealth had heretofore been unable to do: get _results_.

And so I scurried to the cash register to pay for the items that I'd deemed necessary for his recovery, figuring out in my head the nearest safe house with a large stash of money hidden away, knowing that regardless of where I took him to get treated, great sums of cash would be necessary to buy people's silence. I was hardly paying any attention to the cashier as I gave him a twenty, but the man's thick accent made me glance at him as I picked up the bag and took the change. Was he from India or Bangladesh, or possibly Pakistan? There were so many immigrants in this city now, and I wasn't as well-versed in their native tongues as to be able to pinpoint where they were from; although perhaps John would know, having spent some time in that region of the world.

I had already walked out of the store, heading back to the car, when the idea occurred to me – it was almost literally like a light bulb turned on in my head: I needed to find a doctor who was an immigrant. Someone who was skilled enough to make it to America, but still had family in his native country who were poor, possibly even in desperate situations. There were countless stories like that, where immigrants (both illegal and legal) had to resort to low-paying, menial jobs that Americans – no matter how bad the unemployment rate was – would not stoop to take, just so they could support their families with the buying power of the US Dollar. If I could find a doctor in such a situation...

Excited now, I hurried back to the car and checked on John to make sure that he wasn't going into shock. Of course, even if he were, he might not have shown it, but he seemed to be holding up as well as could be expected. After giving him a sip of Gatorade and wadding up my suit jacket to make a pillow for his head, I drove to the nearest safe house to pick up the bag of cash I had hidden (for just this kind of emergency) in the wall behind the bathroom sink. I changed into a set of clean, nondescript clothes, and found a blanket to keep John warm and covered. He had helped himself to some more Gatorade while I was inside, which I took as a good sign.

"Where're you... taking me?" he asked as I searched on my laptop.

"It looks like... our best bet..." – I typed a bit more, hacking into a bank account to confirm my suspicions – "is the city Coroner's Office."

"I think that's... a bit premature, Harold," John croaked at me from the back seat.

"Just hang on, John – I've found the best surgeon in Najaf for you," I told him, putting the car in drive.

* * *

><p>I was relieved when Dr. Madani began to examine John's wounds very efficiently and to prioritize which to repair first. It occurred to me then, rather belatedly, that the doctor might have refused to treat him if he had been spooked by my knowledge of his personal affairs; however, I got the sense that he relished the opportunity to work on a live patient for the first time in years – someone who would appreciate the skills which he obviously possessed. Seeing some of John's old scars for the first time (as the doctor thoroughly disinfected him) I realized anew what a dangerous life he had led, and was still continuing under my employment... It was one thing to read about his past missions in a file, but quite another to see them mapped out on his flesh.<p>

When we had to roll John onto his side to treat the exit wound on his back, John actually tried to help pull his body over but I stopped him in time – I knew he needed to conserve as much of his strength as possible. I supported his back while the doctor worked on the gaping wound, and then I could not stop the trembling that started up in the core of my being. The wound looked even worse on this side, and I realized how close to death John had come. How close I had come to losing him... My hands were shaking now and I couldn't do a damn thing about it. I couldn't even hide the fact from John, since I needed to keep holding him steady so the doctor could do his job. If John decided to make wry remarks about it to me later, then I would simply have to bear it... perhaps welcome it as a sign of recovery. There were worse things than to be teased by him, I acknowledged silently – like never hearing his voice again.

It seemed to take forever but the doctor finally finished patching up the worst of John's wounds. When he was resting on his back, he looked at me... but there was no teasing or humor in his dark eyes. He knew as well as I did – perhaps better – what a close call it had been. He had been ready to give up, to forego the risk of a rescue... Why? Because he had thought his injuries too severe to recover from? Or simply to spare me from being exposed to the Agents? Because I had to survive, no matter what, to make sure that someone did something about the Numbers?

I suddenly needed to turn away so he wouldn't see my tears. Hobbling over to the sink, I dampened some paper towels (having noticed the sheen of cold sweat on his face) and used the action to mask wiping my own face. I was angry at myself for not being able to control my emotions – especially when right now, I needed to be strong and levelheaded for both of us. But I had just realized with acute clarity that saving those Numbers meant almost _**nothing**_ to me in comparison with saving the one man that I knew and... I had to admit, _loved_. I had lost Nate already. I was still mourning that loss. I hadn't expected to love anybody else so deeply while I was still grieving for him, and yet, against all odds, I had. And I wasn't about to let _him_ die, too – not if I could help it!

Bracing myself, I returned to John's side to blot away the clamminess on his skin. My hands were still trembling slightly, but I tried to be careful not to scratch him with the rough paper towels. His eyes seemed to pierce my soul as he gazed up at me without a word, and I could feel his concern surging around me almost like a palpable thing, causing the lump in my throat to grow so large that I could hardly breathe.

"He is lucky that the bullet did not penetrate his intestines," the doctor's voice broke in on my thoughts. "A few centimeters to the inside, and not even the best ER in the city could have saved him."

"Not luck," John answered, startling me. "He wasn't... aiming to kill."

"Oh, of course... how considerate of him," I retorted, surprising myself with the bitterness of my tone.

"We were trained to... hit right there... Least amount of... _permanent_ damage... but... high yield of pain," John rasped out, both his words and the effort it was costing him making me cringe. "Supposed to... _incapacitate_... subject..."

"Hush," I told him, grabbing one of his bloodied hands and starting to clean it in an attempt to distract him. "At least you're still alive... and I plan to keep it that way. Just relax, and let me take care of this."

I was babbling, I knew, but at least it had the desired effect of making John stop talking. He didn't resist when I reached for his other hand to clean that as well, but when I'd finished with both of them, he grasped my nervously fluttering fingers in his with a gentle but firm grip. I was shocked to realize that _he_ was trying to calm _me_, when _he_ was the one lying there with bullet holes in his body... and I was humbled to concede that I needed him to, that I _did_ derive strength from the simple contact with his rough, often-injured hands. I didn't know if I were giving him anything back in return, but continued to hold his hands in gratitude and comfort until the doctor had to roll him onto his other side.

"Do you need more medication?" I asked, anxious lest it run out of his system and leave him in pain again.

"No... No more drugs. Don't worry – I've had far worse before."

My heart ached to hear him say that so calmly, knowing that it was all too true. I didn't want to over-medicate him, so I had to trust his judgment, but he tensed as the doctor began stitching his leg – it _was_ wearing off, as I'd suspected, but he was probably trying to wean himself off of it so he could be on high alert, just in case the Agents caught up to us. With a sigh, I gave up on making him take any more pills at the moment. Once we were back in the car and safely out of the City, I would try to persuade him again.

"Harold," John said in an even softer tone, "I almost forgot to tell you... the girls are all right."

"Of course they are... I wouldn't have expected any less of you," I shot back, unable to moderate my words as they spilled out, rough and ragged with emotion. Here John was, getting sewn up from nearly getting killed, and his thoughts were focused on everybody except himself. He was a goddamn _hero_, through and through. It really _had_ been Fate that had led me to him!

"They're safe now... They can take care of their mom's house."

I couldn't even find any words to say to that... he was worried about their mother's _house_, for Christ's sake! His grip on my hands tightened as though to bolster me, but it didn't prepare me for what he said next.

"I'm sorry, Harold... I shouldn't have called Carter... It's all my fault..."

"John, never mind that now!" I blurted out, dismayed to think that he felt like he owed me an apology. Of course, I couldn't understand his need to help Carter, who was, after all, trying to arrest him; but then again, that was just the kind of man he was, and I would probably _never_ understand it. That didn't mean that I blamed him for getting hurt! If he had turned himself in to the police or CIA, that would be a different story, but it wasn't like he was _trying_ to get killed...

"But she _saw_ you," he insisted. "If I hadn't screwed up, she would've never known..."

"John, just... try to rest," I told him with a sigh, cupping his face with one hand to try to convey that I wasn't upset with him, even though I would have chosen to do things differently. "It will all work out, I promise. You just need to concentrate on getting better..."

"Thank you, Harold," he said, holding my gaze with his. He must have sensed my confusion – he'd already thanked me for giving him this job (for the second time) as he'd tried to say his goodbye to me... a farewell that I'd refused to accept – so he clarified his words by adding, "for coming to rescue me."

What, really, had he expected me to do? Stay away, and leave him to die like a dog? Or even, best case scenario, arrested by Carter and taken into the hospital for treatment (the irony that I'd had to bring him so far to get treated when he'd been shot in a hospital parking lot was not lost on me) only to be murdered later by his erstwhile coworkers? Did he honestly think I could have stood by and let that happen? That I was so unfeeling, so inhuman, as to sacrifice him on the altar of the Cause as... _"collateral damage"?_

How could I care about the Numbers, whom I only knew by photos and data, and not care about John Reese, about whom I knew exactly _everything?_ And not just knew, but whom I had met and worked with and observed and been observed by and joked with and worried over and argued with and admired and respected and cared about and... and _loved?_ How could I even _pretend_ to care about the Numbers if I were willing to let the person I was closest to die?

I knew I couldn't speak now without blubbering like an idiot, so I kept my mouth shut and grabbed John's hands again. What I wanted to do was yell at him, to demand if he actually thought I could have done any differently, but as his hands gripped mine back, I knew I didn't need to say anything at all. He knew. He understood. But he'd had to thank me, anyway, because he'd been betrayed by his supposed "friends" before – probably the same lot as had just shot him – and he wanted to tell me that he would never take our partnership for granted. That it _meant_ something to him that I cared about him. Perhaps even (I dared to hope) that _I_ meant as much to him as _he_ meant to me...

Doctor Madani finished stitching up John's injuries and went the extra mile of helping me get him into the car. When he assured us that our secrets were safe with him, I was able to exhale a good portion of the tightness which had been building up in my chest. John thanked him in his native tongue, bringing a genuine smile to his tired face, and I made a mental note to ask John (when he had recovered) to teach me a few phrases in Arabic.

He was quiet on the drive out of town, gratefully sipping the Gatorade now that he wasn't bleeding so profusely. I pulled out the bottle of painkillers and handed it to him.

"You should take another dose now. I don't want you to even _try_ to move when we get home – I can't afford to have you rip out your new stitches. They cost a small fortune, you realize."

He chuckled at my attempt at humor and made a great show of swallowing one pill.

"So... we're going... 'home'?"

Always alert, always digging... but I was thankful that he was strong enough to want to know.

"Yes, Mr. Reese. As I haven't placed a hood on your head or blindfolded you, I'm sure you can see that we're headed out to the Hamptons. I have a... summer house out there. I suppose it's as much of a home as any one of my properties..."

"Hmm... 'Home' sounds nice," he softly remarked, and a moment later slipped his hand under my seatbelt to rest on my thigh. I gulped involuntarily at the touch, but didn't demand that he remove it – I couldn't. It felt good, despite the intrusion into my... personal space. By the time I remembered to call the house and alert my staff to expect us (I'd need Mr. DeYoung's assistance to move John out of the car), it almost felt... _natural_... there...


	5. Chapter 4 Jim Doherty Part 1

**Chapter 4 – James "Jim" Doherty**, Part 1

2011/12/16, 02:37:52 – Finch Estate, Southampton (Village), New York

* * *

><p>"Heads up," I said as soon as I saw the trees at the end of the driveway lit up by the headlights of a car. There was never any traffic in this ritzy neighborhood at this hour of the night, so it was a safe bet that the car was Mr. Finch's. Marty had been mooning like a jealous puppy ever since he'd gotten the call that our boss was bringing home the ex-army guy (Marty still called him "the bum" even though he'd cleaned up pretty good the last time we'd seen him) who'd apparently gotten hurt somehow – possibly in the line of duty, whatever his duties were for Mr. Finch. Marty and I had speculated about that a lot, since we had a lot of time on our hands these days, but each theory was crazier and less probable than the one before. It didn't bug me like it did Marty (who had a crush on the boss as big as a tweenie girl on Justin Bieber) but I was curious. Maybe now we'd find out, or get some sort of hint as to what the guy did for Mr. Finch that was so all-fired important.<p>

By the time the car rolled to a stop, Marty had the wheelchair placed and I was right behind him ready to assist. I'd turned on the porch light, and although the guy was on the far side of the car and in the shadows, I could still see that he didn't look good. The last time I'd seen him was when we'd hauled his drunken ass from a cheap hotel to the Ritz-Carlton (talk about an upgrade!) under Mr. Finch's orders, and he'd just shaved and cut his hair so he'd looked loads better than the homeless Bigfoot impersonation he'd been doing before, but he was pasty pale under all that newly-shaven hair and three sheets to the wind to boot, so it probably hadn't been his best Kodak moment. Now, he had a better haircut, but he looked like death warmed over – his skin almost had a green cast to it, as though he were seasick or had lost a ton of blood or both.

Mr. Finch practically _jumped_ out of the car as soon as he'd parked it, and told us to use the backboard that was in the back seat (wherever _that_ had come from!) to slide "Mr. Reese" into the wheelchair.

"Please be very careful – he's injured in his lower left abdomen as well as his right thigh," the boss directed, his usual nervousness accentuated by the stress this situation was obviously causing him. "He's just been stitched up, and we absolutely _cannot_ afford to have his wounds re-opened."

Times like these, I was glad that Marty was such a big guy. He'd played football, of course, back in the day, until a knee injury had taken him out of the game. It was still bothering him when he'd been hired on, but Mr. Finch had made sure that he'd gotten the best treatment – two laparoscopic surgeries later, the big guy was as good as new. Marty could be intimidating just standing up, towering over most people at a hulking 6'5", and right now he was putting his bulk to good use. After making a bridge from the car seat to the wheelchair with the backboard, he crouched down to grab "the bum" in a sort of hug, one hand on the guy's ass to slide him over the backboard and into the wheelchair. I was holding the wheelchair steady, trying not to smirk at all the ways I was gonna tease Marty about the new arrival – especially since the guy had to put his arms around Marty's shoulders during the procedure.

It still blew my mind that a big, strapping guy like Marty preferred guys over girls, but he was pretty discreet about it, so I tried not to give him too hard of a time. I'd even met a couple of his boyfriends over the years, and they seemed to be decent, regular guys. But of course the biggest elephant in the room was Marty's crush on Mr. Finch, which he kept denying, vehemently, even though he couldn't keep his eyes off of the boss whenever he was around. Sure, that was our _job_, to keep eyes on the boss and make sure he was safe, but Marty stared at him like a hungry wolf drooling over a big, juicy slab of steak. I didn't get it... I mean, Mr. Finch was the nicest boss anyone could ask for, if a bit eccentric, and he wasn't bad-looking or anything, but... _God_, there was just something _wrong_ about the way Marty lusted after that man! I'd chalked it up to father-figure issues a long time ago, but that still didn't make it any easier to swallow. Even Marty must have realized how perverted it was, or he wouldn't have kept trying to deny it.

Anyhow, I knew it was going to be a bumpy ride with the new guy thrown into the mix. While Marty carried in the backboard and a bag of groceries (leave it to Mr. Finch to have the presence of mind to pick up _groceries_, even in the middle of a crisis), I pushed the wheelchair up the ramp and rolled "Mr. Reese" into the first floor bedroom. Marty had already turned on the lights and lowered the handrail on one side, but the bed was jacked up rather high, so Mr. Finch fiddled with the controls to bring it down as low as it could go. As Marty set down the backboard and the bag, I locked the wheelchair's brakes and noticed for the first time how much blood was on the new guy's clothes. It sure didn't look good... and from the way Mr. Finch was worrying over him, he must be in really bad shape.

"Mr. DeYoung, before you move him into the bed, I need your help removing his... soiled clothing," Mr. Finch began, leaning in to unbutton the guy's shirt himself. "Mr. Doherty, would you please bring my bathrobe – the long one – from my room? And also one of my cotton T-shirts, and... a pair of boxers."

"Could I borrow a pair of socks, too?" the patient himself piped up, more to Mr. Finch than to me. "I'm afraid I bled all the way into my shoes..."

"Of course," Mr. Finch responded with a haunted look on his face, and I ran up to his room to grab the requested items.

When I came back, Mr. Finch was wiping down the guy's back with what looked to be disposable wipes (there was an open package on the bed) and Marty was kneeling on the floor, wiping the guy's legs and feet clean of the blood he had mentioned. I couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for the fellow, seeing all his bandages now that he'd been stripped down to just his tighty whities – or rather, his pair of black boxers, which had to be bloody, too. Mr. Finch has always been generous, but it still shocked me to realize that he was going to share such a personal article of clothing with his new Wonder Boy. I wondered how Marty was taking it but I didn't have the time to check on him now – I was helping Mr. Finch get his T-shirt (one of the gray ones he wore when he worked out) on the new guy, careful not to let it catch on any of his bandages. The effort left him panting, which told me how badly he'd been hurt. Marty had put the socks on his feet already without comment.

"Mr. DeYoung, if you can lift him for a moment, I'll pull the old one off," Mr. Finch instructed, assessing the situation with clinical detachment. There was the slightest hint of a sigh from the new guy as he realized that he was literally going to be stripped of all his privacy. Marty approached him with some hesitation, too – mostly because he was trying to figure out how to lift him without hurting him or touching his ass, but there had to be a part of him that was revolting against the very thought of what we were about to do. He ended up standing behind the wheelchair to hoist him in a sort of Nelson, leaving Mr. Finch enough room to yank off the guy's boxers from the front. I was holding out the clean pair so he could put them on right away, but the moment the guy's privates were exposed, I saw that he'd need to be wiped down there, too.

"You bled like a stuck pig, didn't you?" I couldn't help saying as our boss reached for more wipes. There was a low chuckle from the guy as he took the wipes, very deliberately, from Mr. Finch.

"Not a stuck pig... just a shot pig," he remarked, cleaning up his privates and hips and thighs of all the half-dried blood.

Well, that sure explained how he'd gotten his injuries. He was lucky to be alive if someone had been shooting at him. I wondered briefly whether he'd been exposed to such a dangerous situation in the line of his duties for Mr. Finch, or if it had simply been "an unfortunate accident" like the boss had said to Marty. In New York, anything could happen if you were in the wrong place at the wrong time; still, it was a bit unsettling, since the guy had plainly been hired for his military training and God-knows-what other skills. I didn't want to think that our Mr. Finch could be involved in some sort of skullduggery, but there it was.

When the guy was done cleaning himself, Mr. Finch took the fresh pair of boxers from me and moved them up his long legs, waiting for Marty to pick him up again and carefully positioning the waist band just below the bandages on his stomach. Then the boss grabbed his bathrobe, which Marty (with a hard swallow that probably only I noticed) helped to hold while the guy cautiously put his arms into the sleeves. A gut injury is a tricky thing, as I knew from experience (hernia surgery about five years ago), and the new guy was probably figuring it out the hard way. One more lift from Marty and Mr. Finch was adjusting the robe to cover him up – it only came down to the middle of his calves, as opposed to the ankles on Mr. Finch, so it was a good thing he'd asked for the socks.

Marty set up the backboard as a bridge again and I helped him slide the new guy onto the bed. He wasn't quite as much of a dead weight as the last time we'd done this, so that helped, but of course he couldn't use any of his stomach muscles. I told him to trust his weight to me once I'd positioned my arms behind his back, and lowered him down to lie flat on the bed. Both of us sighed when the chore was over.

"Thank you, gentlemen," Mr. Finch said, fussing with the blanket and tucking it around the new guy like he was some beloved baby doll. "Mr. Doherty, would you be so kind as to hook up Mr. Reese to one of the IVs with antibiotics? I would do it myself but I'm afraid my hands aren't very steady tonight..."

"Of course, Mr. Finch," I answered, and went to the small refrigerator at the end of the room – he'd had a sink and kitchenette installed there to hold a complete set of medical supplies – and came back with what I needed. I'd been a medic in the Navy, so poking needles into people didn't bother me in the least. I was, however, a bit worried at how much Mr. Finch's hands seemed to be shaking, now that he mentioned it.

"Would you like a tranquilizer of some sort, Mr. Finch?" I asked as I found a vein in the new guy's arm and taped the needle down.

"No, thank you, Mr. Doherty. I'll be all right," he said a bit distractedly. "Mr. DeYoung, if you would put that backboard away in the broom cupboard – at least, I believe it will fit... Oh, and would you please bring my wing-back chair from the study?"

"Yes, Mr. Finch," was all Marty said, but I could tell that there was a degree of... numbness, for lack of a better description, in his voice. He was stunned to realize that Mr. Finch – in addition to bringing "the bum" home to his mansion and dressing him in his own clothes – was going to sit up with him all night. Well, maybe not all night, but probably for a good while, since the wing-back chair was the most comfortable one for him. We'd found him sleeping in it on more than one occasion.

I checked that the IV drip was working and covered up the guy's arm with the blanket before asking, "Is there anything else I can get you, Mr. Finch? Perhaps a cup of tea...?"

"Ah... yes. That does sound nice. Would you like something to drink, Mr. Reese? Or something to eat?"

"I'm good, thanks," he replied with a wan smile. He looked exhausted, but relieved, and... maybe it was my imagination, but somewhat... amused, as well. "I just drank a whole bottle of Gatorade and you've got me hooked up to an IV – I think I'll be quite well hydrated, Harold."

My mouth fell open at the familiar way he'd used Mr. Finch's first name. It sounded perfectly natural, like he'd said it a hundred times before, rolling off his tongue as though it had never even occurred to him how inappropriate it was to call his boss – his _employer_ – like any Tom, Dick, or Harry. The guy wasn't _that_ much younger than me, was he? After all, he was getting gray at the temples... Shouldn't he be old enough to know better? Or was it... I could barely even wrap my mind around it – was it something that perhaps Mr. Finch himself had _encouraged_ him to do? Were they working together so intimately that... it was simply a natural outcome that they began using each other's first names?

I was glad that Marty hadn't heard that – he was still struggling to bring the wing-back chair in from the other room – and hoped that I would have a chance to warn him so he wouldn't do something stupid (like, say, cold-cock an injured man) if it happened again and caught him by surprise. I had to make the tea that I'd promised Mr. Finch, so I left them to go to the kitchen at the back of the house. Mrs. Stuckley, the cook, had taught me how to make a proper cup of tea just the way the boss liked it, and I added a plate of cookies from the cupboard in case he began feeling peckish.

By the time I got back to the bedroom with the tray, Marty had brought in an ottoman and some pillows and blankets for his dear Mr. Finch, too, who was now ensconced upon his throne, set up right next to the hospital bed. Marty was hovering over him (a somewhat intimidating picture if you didn't know how docile he was), practically _fawning_ over him, if you please – offering to remove his shoes and fetch his slippers like a good doggie. Okay, so I added the part about the "good doggie," but Marty _was_ offering to get the boss' slippers for him. The new guy's eyes were closed, but I couldn't help feeling uneasy – he struck me as the kind of guy who didn't miss anything and, even with two bullet holes in him, I couldn't see how he could possibly miss noticing the way Marty felt about our mutual employer. For that matter, I wasn't sure how Mr. Finch could be oblivious to it, but either it was below his radar or he simply chose to ignore it; in any case, he'd never responded to Marty's overt overtures in the least – neither encouraging nor discouraging him.

"Thank you, Mr. DeYoung, but I don't believe that will be necessary. I'll be quite warm enough with these," Mr. Finch was saying, indicating the blankets piled on him. "Were you on night watch tonight? Well, if you could please check the perimeter and the road for any signs that I was followed here... Oh, no! I don't think I was, but just in case, you understand. We can't be too careful..."

"Let us know right away if you see a black SUV with no headlights," the new guy spoke up from where he lay. "Although I don't think they could've followed us... I deactivated my cell when we stopped at the store, so even if they went back and traced it, I doubt they'd be able to pinpoint the vehicle I was in. And speaking of vehicles, I left mine on the top level of the parking structure—"

"I'll take care of it, John, don't worry," Mr. Finch interrupted, making my heart drop – as well as Marty's, I was sure. "Perhaps Mr. Doherty can stop by to pick it up tomorrow, on his way to retrieve your things from the hotel."

I swallowed and said, "Of course, Mr. Finch," and set the tea tray down for him, hoping it would distract him from Marty's reaction. At least the big guy would never cold-cock the boss, but I knew it had to be devastating for him to realize how... close, his idol had grown to his nemesis.

"Ah, thank you, Mr. Doherty... and I'm sorry to have awoken you at this ungodly hour. I hope you can get some rest yet before morning. I'm afraid we still have a busy day ahead of us..."

"Not at all, Mr. Finch," I answered, and nudged Marty to make him leave the room with me – he was too stunned to think straight for a minute, but at least he automatically followed me out.

"Are you all right?" I whispered when we were out in the hall, the door closed securely behind us.

"I... uh..." he mumbled, then managed, "I have to check the perimeter."

"Yeah, that's right. And look out for black SUVs," I reminded him, hoping he'd focus on the task at hand.

"Yeah. Black SUVs. Right." He looked down at me with desperation welling in his eyes and asked, "D'you think... maybe it was just... y'know... because he got _shot?_"

I knew what he was trying to say, and what he was hoping for. He'd told me of the one time our employer had called him "Marty" and how much it had meant to him.

"Maybe, Big Guy," I said, not wanting to dash his hopes outright, but had to add, "but maybe... that's just how it is..."

He nodded, slowly, before turning to go to the Control Room, where all of the feeds from the surveillance cameras were routed and displayed on sixteen monitors. I felt bad for him, of course, but there was also a part of me that wondered if maybe this might not be a _good_ thing – the kick in the pants Marty needed to give up his infatuation with Mr. Finch. He could never seem to settle down with any of his boyfriends, even a couple of the really nice ones, and I'd long suspected that he was comparing them to Mr. Finch and finding them wanting. Maybe if our boss became very definitely unavailable (although it was hard to consider him as being "available" even now), Marty would get his head out of his ass and be happy with someone ordinary...

At least, that's what I hoped for as I dragged myself back into bed. As the boss had warned, we had a long road ahead of us yet...


	6. Chapter 5 John Reese Part 1

**Chapter 5 – John Reese**, Part 1

2011/12/16, 03:08:46 – Finch Estate, Southampton (Village), New York

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><p>I was glad that Finch had made me take another painkiller by the time his bodyguards finally laid me down on the bed. The repeated lifting and moving (because of course, Finch wanted to change my bloody clothes – <em><strong>all<strong>_ of them) made my muscles ache even where I hadn't been shot. But his pills had made the pain bearable, and I was able to lie back at last and let my body rest. It did nothing to ease the embarrassment of being stripped naked by Finch himself, in plain sight of his two guys (whom I'd clouted rather soundly the last time we'd met), but it _did_ feel good to be cleaned up before being tucked into bed by Finch, who was fussing over me like a mother hen. He probably would've cleaned up the blood on my privates if I'd let him! Thankfully, I'd intercepted his hands in time, before he embarrassed all of us. At least I hadn't been shot in the arms or shoulders this time, so I wasn't _completely_ helpless.

Leave it to Finch, though, to have not just a hospital bed in his house, but a whole room set up like a trauma ward. I was impressed in spite of myself. The older bodyguard ("Mr. Doherty") must've had some medical training, too, since he had me hooked up to an IV in no time. On the other hand, the big guy ("Mr. DeYoung") was a piece of work – I hadn't expected any welcome wagons to be waiting for me, especially after our last encounter, but the dislike that was emanating from him hit me almost like a solid punch. Still, he was careful not to inflict any more pain than was necessary when he handled me. At least he wasn't mean-spirited, although it was obvious that he considered my presence a threat. For what, I wasn't sure at first, but even with my brain half-fogged with the pain medication, I figured out pretty quickly that it wasn't professional rivalry – he had it _bad_ for _Finch_, and didn't like how chummy I'd gotten with the boss! Well, I had news for him: I'd earned every bit of it, and wasn't about to back off just because I had some competition.

Actually, though, he wasn't posing much of a challenge – at least, Finch was politely ignoring his near-constant attentions, so I assumed that the boss man just wasn't interested. For that matter, I wasn't sure if Finch felt any attraction for me _that_ way, _per se_, but his actions tonight had dispelled any lingering doubts I might have had about my place in his tidy little world: he cared about me. I was sure of it now. I'd suspected it for a while, ever since he'd risked his own life by placing himself smack dab in the middle of the lockup robbery to warn me of the trap. As well as every time he'd snapped at me in supposed irritation when I'd gone incommunicado. And every time he'd inadvertently called me by name – just "Reese" or even "John" – when he was worried about me or downright panicked. I meant more to him than he'd ever expected, in all likelihood... which was a success for me. All of my hard work – the actual work that I'd done for my job, as well as the teasing banter that I had coaxed him into – had paid off.

It was funny, almost, how we'd had to grope our way in the dark to forge a working relationship. Neither of us trusted people easily; neither of us liked working with other people, since most were less competent than what we needed. So I realized that it was hard for Finch to ask me for my expertise (for my help) and let me run with the operations as though _I_ were in charge, not him. But as I repeatedly proved to him that I was capable of doing the job, I could sense his relief, elation, and even joy at finally being able to _do_ something about the information he had. And that, in turn, had told me more about _him_ – about the person he really was _inside_ – than any amount of information I could have dug up on him on the Internet, even if he hadn't erased all traces of his existence there.

He, too, wanted to protect people. He was tired of feeling helpless, like he was caught up in a machine (not his creation, but life and the world in general) that he could neither escape nor change. He was haunted by demons from his past – demons named Guilt and Self-Blame and Loss – which he wished to exorcise by doing something good and positive for the future. All of these traits, I realized, were ones that I could relate to as well. Finch had been entirely correct: we _did_ have a lot in common. Including even (to our mutual surprise) a fondness for dry, understated humor. I doubted he could have predicted _that_ just from reading my files, no matter how many classified accounts he might have hacked into. We were simply, undeniably, a perfect fit. A match made in heaven, as it were.

I'd started flirting with him right from the get-go, because finding myself tied up to a bed in an unfamiliar room made me wonder what other things the mysterious Mr. Finch might be interested in – or even what he might have done to me while I'd been unconscious. Sure, I'd been furious at first, since he'd scared the living daylights out of me with that recording; frankly, I'd thought he'd flipped out and was killing that woman in the next room as some sort of sick punishment for my not playing along with his game. He'd even struck a raw nerve, bringing up the fact that I'd been unable to save Jessica from a similar fate as the woman whose screams he'd used. But when I had him pinned against the wall, helpless before my rage with his bodyguards nowhere in sight, I realized that he had risked _everything_ to get my attention – just to get me to _listen_ to what he was saying. About the chance to "be there in time."

He'd risked getting strangled to death just to recruit me for his crusade, or mission, or whatever you want to call it. It not only made me pay attention to his words, it also spoke of a desperation that the impassive man never showed on his face: he wanted _me_ for the job, and had gone to great lengths to find me. I have to admit, I was flattered – he'd gone to much more trouble to track me down than the Agency had after I'd staged my death.

So, Mr. Finch _wanted_ me; he was utterly convinced that I was the one, perhaps the _only_ one, for this "job" after finding out "exactly everything" about me. I couldn't help but wonder how far he would go to keep me... something I tested out fairly early on, by asking – _demanding_, even – for him to get more involved in the case. When he'd shown up at the lockup, I had my answer: even if it was only to spare himself the hassle of finding a replacement, he would do pretty much anything to keep me safe. Of course I realized that he'd calculated the risks in that brilliant mind of his before jumping into the thick of things. Of course it probably wasn't for me, _personally_, but for me, the operative, the asset, the ideal tool or weapon in his campaign for justice. But still... it felt good to be _wanted_.

He was also right in his assumption that I would try to narrow that "disparity" gap as quickly as possible. When he'd warned me that he was "a very private person," I took that as a challenge – and I do love challenges. Finch struck me as intelligent enough and tenacious enough to put up a decent fight (in the information arena, anyway) and I wasn't wrong in my assessment. So the chase had begun. The flirting had just been a part of it – to knock him off-balance in an effort to make him reveal things that he wouldn't ordinarily. Not that it had worked much, as a technique, but it did serve to amuse me, and it had uncovered the dry humor which I hadn't suspected Finch of possessing. In fact, I think he rather enjoys it – enjoys having someone make a decent attempt, at least, at matching wits with him.

I learned that he was quite capable (despite his injuries) of spotting and losing a tail; he learned equally quickly that I was capable of finding him, even without hacking into multiple surveillance cameras around the city. He retaliated by spending the night at the library rather than going home, knowing that I was waiting to follow him; I countered by slipping past the alarms at the library the next morning, startling him out of a sound sleep. And always, I kept up the teasing banter, trying to get under his cool, calm, mask-like skin – with not a single crack showing in his titanium exterior. If anything, he grew even more wary, reading hidden meanings into my words that I'd not even thought of and guarding his privacy as carefully as a wild animal hides its offspring from a predator.

Not that I would have harmed him in any way... I only kept after him in the hopes of getting some sort of reaction – humorous or human – out of him. Even though I'd figured out where a couple of his safe houses were, I didn't immediately act on that information. I was waiting for the opportune moment to show up one night, perhaps waiting for him there with dinner for the two of us, to surprise him but also (if it worked) to make him admit that I wasn't half bad for company after a hard day. If I ever find out when his real birthday is, I might be tempted to greet him at whichever apartment he goes to for the night, with a cake covered in candles. Or maybe tie myself up to his bed like he'd done to me in the hotel, just for the pleasure of asking him if that sort of thing excited him.

Of course he would probably respond, deadpan, that it only excited him insofar as I could be _kept_ tied up, or some such snide remark, delivered with an almost utter lack of emotion. I'd noticed that the more I tried to get a rise out of him, the more inscrutable his responses became. But then again, he began letting glimpses of his humor show through – like his comment that implied I was asking for a raise in a backhanded way. (That had truly been the farthest thing from my mind at the time – he was reading that into my words, no doubt giving me more credit than I deserved for craftiness or, possibly, just trying to ensure that I was happy with my work arrangement.) It led me to wonder if he didn't so adamantly and completely refuse to acknowledge my flirting because he was afraid that _any_ response would reveal too much – that if he began to tease back, it might show that he actually... _enjoyed_ the teasing. Maybe even... that he _liked_ the idea of us being more than just business partners, as my innuendos often suggested. It was a heady thought in more ways than one.

When I'd finally dropped all pretenses and simply thanked him for what he had given me – not just a job, but a purpose, a reason to live, and the joy of seeing good people saved from tragedy – it had caught him by surprise. I felt rather bad about that... In spite of all my teasing, I'd hoped that he knew how much I appreciated what he'd done by rescuing me from the police station that night. If he hadn't, I probably would've been dead (_actually_ dead) either from the Agency catching up to me or from alcohol or some more efficient method, just as he'd guessed. If he hadn't kept hounding me to take his offer, I would have died of despair. Finch was a smart man, a genius, and he accurately read between the lines of my few words this time – he understood what all I was thanking him for. And for the first time, he gave me a snippet of information about himself: he liked the eggs benedict at that diner, and yes, he'd been there many times. I already knew that it was close to one of his apartments, but still... it had warmed my cockles that he had _volunteered_ this information. That he was beginning, ever so gradually, to trust me.

The very next case, he revealed a bit more of his heart to me – of how he'd been "haunted" by the Numbers that he hadn't been able to help. I knew this already, too, but it was good to hear it from his lips; it was especially good to hear him say (even though he hastily tried to cover it up) "we" in reference to our collaboration. He was feeling safer about telling me about himself – not details, of course, but how helpless and frustrated he had felt before he'd found me, which also validated the work that I was now doing for him. And he began using words like "we" and "us" and "our" more often, with increasing comfort in the idea of the two of us being in this together. Because we really were – he might have hired me to do a "job," but his crusade had become my cause as well. We were just two sides of a coin, brought to this point in our lives (even united in our supposed deaths) for this very purpose. I'd never believed in Fate, but the manner in which our paths had converged almost made me believe in some higher power.

I'd almost blown it all, though, after the fiasco with Elias. Finch was quick to shoulder part of the blame, but still, I felt like I'd let him down by not realizing that "Charlie" the teacher was a mole, a sleeper. There were terrorists who spent years (some even their whole lives) living duplicitously, just waiting for the right moment to spring into action and unleash violence on their unsuspecting neighbors – their sworn enemies. I'd been trained to spot such sleeper cells, but with Charlie... I'd failed miserably. I'd even thought that he reminded me of Finch! Where had my senses gone wrong? I couldn't blame it all on the bare fact that I'd lost contact with Finch, and besides, _I_ was the one who'd spent sixteen hours with the guy (twenty-two if you count the time I'd kept surveillance on him). I should have been able to see through him, but I hadn't. He was smart – maybe not as smart as Finch, but smart enough – and had been undercover for so long that his alter ego had become a second skin to him. And I had swallowed it all, hook, line, and sinker...

Finch had tried to console me, but I'd walked away from him for the second time. I was exhausted, frustrated, humiliated, and hungry – not a good combination by any standard – and I wasn't even sure that I wanted to continue this job. I was supposed to be making the world (or at least my corner of it) a better, safer place, damn it! But Finch had understood, and had patiently waited for me to walk off my anger before approaching me again. He'd reminded me of the good that we'd been able to accomplish together already, and of those who would need our help in the future. He'd reaffirmed his faith in me, in the system we had developed.

"It's not foolproof, Mr. Reese – very few things ever are. But it's still the best chance we have to... to make a _difference_. We might not be able to change the world, but it might mean the world to the people we _do_ help. Isn't that worth the effort? Even with the mistakes we'll make (and I have no illusions, Mr. Reese – I'm sure this won't be the last time that we'll misjudge someone)... I still believe that what we're doing is good and right, that we _are_ making our small section of the world a better place."

His impassioned appeal worked on me in two ways: first, it persuaded me that he was right, that it really was "better to light a candle than to curse the dark"; and second, it forced me to realize that I wanted to continue doing this job, if for no other reason than to help Finch deal with his demons – that I didn't want to leave him in the lurch without anyone to be the "muscle," the brawn to his brains. He had already confided in me how much he had suffered when he'd been unable to help prevent the violence which the Numbers represented. I didn't want to put him into such a frustrating position again, or (God forbid!) have him trying to intervene on his own – without the proper training, knowledge, or tools – and getting himself hurt or killed in the attempt. And above all else... even apart from the fact that I honestly had no other place to go... I had to acknowledge that I didn't want to leave Finch. I wanted to help him if I could, yes, but more than that... I wanted to stay with him.

Funny, how I had set about flirting with him and teasing him as a means of gathering more information about him, but had ended up getting hooked on him myself. I wanted to know more, and not just to prepare for whatever hidden agenda he might have (as I'd suspected at first). I found his personality to be... almost _addicting_. Compelling, perhaps, is a better word for it, but... his candor in some areas paired with his paranoid secretiveness in others, for instance, is a curiosity in and of itself. His altruistic nature – that drive that makes him give of his time and resources so generously – tells me that there is so much more to him (and his past) which would be fascinating to know. And his intellect alone is something I admire and appreciate. But it's all inextricably coupled with a man who is (without being condescending) limited in his physical body. Vulnerable and weak, he's the type of person that I instinctively want to protect. He wouldn't stand for it if I put it in those terms, I'm sure, but I can't help the way I feel about him. In short, I consider him _my responsibility_ now – while at the same time I have to concede that I _need him_, too. He is a necessary part of my life, without which I couldn't function; and I would dare to claim that I am just as integral a part of his life as well. Like I said before, we're two sides of the same coin. A co-dependent, symbiotic organism.

Nothing else had driven this reality home to me than the way Finch had ignored my warnings – ignored my attempt to bid him goodbye – to come rescue me. I had learned, or thought I'd learned, that in the end each person is all alone and no one is coming to save you. Finch had proven me wrong. For all of his privacy and secrecy and reclusiveness, he had risked everything to come rescue me – even if that rescue had meant the end for both of us. Unlike the lockup robbery, he had walked (or driven) into the situation completely blind. He had no way of knowing how badly wounded I had been, or even if I would survive. Carter could have arrested both of us. Even if he'd managed to escape, with or without me, Mark or one of the others might have seen him and been able to identify him. Worst case scenario, Mark could have found both of us – in which case both of us would have been shot dead.

I had known from the beginning that Finch was fixated on me, but somewhere along the way, I'd come to embody all of his hopes for the Numbers. Perhaps there's even more to it, that I don't dare speculate on just yet. But with as much money and resources as Finch has, even if I'd died in that parking garage, he would have been able to find _someone_ else to take my place. I was expendable; he was not. I was a mere foot soldier – a pawn or, at best, a knight – while he was the general, the commander, the king. He should never have exposed himself to such danger; and yet, he had. It wasn't logical; but then again, I was finding out that Finch – for all his computer-based geeky-ness – was not a machine. He was human, capable of compassion and attachment and even (dare I say it?) love. I wasn't just a tool to him anymore.

When I felt his hands tremble as he rolled me onto my side and held me there, allowing the doctor to do his work, I _knew_. He was worried sick that I wouldn't make it. Not because he would lose a valuable asset in his mission of justice, but because he would lose _**me**_. He'd mentioned once before that he'd lost someone; I'd guessed that that loss had motivated and mobilized him to launch his little crusade. It must have been devastating... and now as I lay there, getting treated for two gunshot wounds, I knew that my death would be no less devastating a loss to this tight-lipped, poker-faced, seemingly unflappable man. It made me rethink all that I had assumed about him before. Even more, it made me regret my hasty, arrogant actions which had led to my near demise – for the sole reason that it had made Finch frantic with worry. I vowed silently that I would never be so careless again.

Something of my resolve must have shown on my face, because when I was able to look up at him again, he hurried away to get some paper towels to wipe the cold sweat off of my skin. I suspected that he had turned away so suddenly to hide his tears, which pained me more than all of my injuries combined. He didn't deserve this – didn't need to be put through so much trauma again. Thankfully, the doctor made a remark which broke the tension and allowed me to distract Finch for a moment. But my partner was insistent that I not talk, so after he had cleaned my hands of the blood that had stained them, I grabbed his to stop their nervous movements, trying to convey to him that I was still strong enough, that I would pull through. And that I was so grateful that he had come for me.

It did seem to calm him a bit, and I was amazed, myself, how good it felt to have that contact with him. I'd been so relieved to see him in the parking garage, and had almost collapsed in his arms, but he'd been surprisingly strong in supporting me – his grip steady and sure – until Carter had taken over and put me in the car. I would never forget the warmth of his hand on my back, and how his arms had tightened around me at the sound of Carter's voice, as though he would have held me with the very last ounce of his strength rather than give me up to my enemies. I was glad that Carter was not my enemy, of course, but even gladder that Finch was my ally.

When the doctor had to roll me over to work on the back of my thigh, Finch offered me more of his drugs but I refused, wanting to be more clear-headed so that I could be of some help to him. But the pain was coming back, so I started talking again – to distract myself this time. About the girls, and the successful completion of that part of the mission. It affected Finch more than I'd expected, since his emotions were still raw and ragged. But there was one more thing that I had to tell him – to assure him that I would never knowingly place him in this situation again. I gripped his hands harder before forming the words.

"I'm sorry, Harold... I shouldn't have called Carter... It's all my fault—"

"John, never mind that now!" he interrupted, his voice shaking almost as much as his hands had been.

"But she _saw_ you," I pointed out rather needlessly. "If I hadn't screwed up, she would've never known—"

"John, just... try to rest," he sighed, placing one hand on my face with a tenderness that wrung my soul with longing. "It will all work out, I promise. You just need to concentrate on getting better."

The earnestness in his eyes was nothing short of the truth. He didn't blame me for what had happened, or even for my own role in it, despite the fact that (given his cautious nature) _he_ would have never made that sort of mistake. As demanding of a boss as he could be, he didn't fault me for having faults or for being human. All he was concerned about right now was my injuries and making sure that I recovered from them. From the moment he'd learned that I'd been shot, his only goal had been to rescue me – to keep me _safe_.

"Thank you, Harold," I told him, looking up into his kind eyes. His lips parted and the tell-tale wrinkle in his forehead showed up, meaning that he wasn't quite sure why I was thanking him. "For coming to rescue me," I explained, although he couldn't have known – even after reading all of my files – how much it meant to me. How absolutely _convinced_ I had been that there would never be anyone willing to risk everything in order to rescue another person, least of all _**me**_. How grateful I was that he had proven me wrong. How much it healed my soul (if I even had such a thing, still) and restored my faith – maybe not in mankind, as a whole, but in him as a person, at least.

I'd made him choke up again, which hadn't been my intention, but it was nice to have him just hold my hands again for a while. Reminding me that I wasn't alone – not anymore. Even with two bullet holes in my body, I'd never felt so... _whole_, in a long time. Not for over ten years, in fact.

As he drove us out of the city, he made me take another pill, but gave me a balm that was even better: he was taking me "home." Maybe it wasn't a "home" like what most people would mean, but it was the closest thing that Finch had to one, which was good enough for me. I could feel the euphoria wash over me (or was that the medication?) at the thought of being allowed one step further inside Finch's private world. Maybe there was a chink in his armor, after all – a theory that I tested by worming my hand against his nearer thigh. Much to my surprise, he didn't shake it off or even make a droll comment about it. I dozed for a bit until we arrived at his house – or mansion, rather, from what I could make out in the dark – and after some fuss, here I was: finally clean, patched up, and settled into bed.

I glanced over at Finch, who was also settled into a wing-back chair and buried under a good layer of blankets. It seemed like he was planning on staying beside me, all night if necessary. I hoped that the chair was as comfortable as it looked, because I really couldn't find it in me to tell him to go lie down in his bed upstairs. I wanted him near me right now... I was still feeling a little vulnerable, and wasn't at all sure if I could trust my well-being to his bodyguards – especially the big one. I'd apparently startled the other one, too, when I'd called Finch by name. It had been a deliberate move on my part, to test the waters, and I was glad that I hadn't tried it in front of the big guy yet.

That, thankfully, was taken care of by Finch himself – although I'm not sure it was deliberate... but then again, knowing how brilliant he is, it probably was. The poor fellow looked about as crestfallen as anybody I've ever seen when his precious "Mr. Finch" called me "John." I almost felt sorry that I'd taken up such a special place in his boss' heart. But I wasn't about to relinquish my claims on Finch – not after fighting so damn hard to get this far! And I had to figure that if "Mr. DeYoung" wanted someone special in his life, he could go out and date anyone he wanted to. For me, the only human contact I could have (apart from fleeting acquaintances with the Numbers) was Finch. And he meant _everything_ to me.

Even now, my hand twitched to reach out to him where he was curled up, half-lying and half-sitting in his chair with a book propped up on his lap. He was close enough that I could touch him if I did, but I didn't want to press my luck. At least I could look and drink in a more relaxed picture of Finch than I usually got. He was trying (or pretending to try) to read his book, although his eyelids were drooping. He'd had a rather harrowing night... on my account. I swallowed, feeling a lump form in my throat.

Finch looked up, probably feeling my gaze on him.

"What is it? Are you in pain?" he asked, instantly alert.

"No," I mumbled, pressing my eyes closed. It almost physically hurt to see him so worried about me.

"Please don't be a hero about this, John – it's not like I don't have enough painkillers here to make a drug dealer drool."

I chuckled at his tongue-twister and looked at him again.

"No, I don't need any more drugs – really. But if I could ask a favor..."

"What is it?"

"Will you give me your hand?"

There was that crease furrowing his brow momentarily, but when I slipped my hand out from the covers (thankfully the IV was on the other side) it disappeared in understanding. His hand met mine as he rested his elbow and forearm on the bed.

"Hmph. For a second there..." he began, then blushed.

"What?" I prodded, sensing something good.

"For a second, I wondered if you were... asking for my hand i—in marriage..."

I couldn't stop the grin that spread across my face, and squeezed his hand once before pulling it closer to my face to kiss his knuckles.

"I'm afraid you're putting the cart before the horse, Harold," I teased, watching him squirm and loving every moment of it. "I haven't even asked you out on a date yet. But when I do, you need to make sure that Mr. DeYoung comes along as your chaperone. After all, I'm a dangerous, wanted criminal..."

Finch groaned and heaved a huge sigh. But he didn't withdraw his hand, and I fell asleep holding on to it like the lifeline it was.


	7. Chapter 6 Nancy Stuckley Part 1

**Chapter 6 – Nancy Stuckley**, Part 1

2011/12/16, 07:32:25 – Finch Estate, Southampton (Village), New York

* * *

><p>When I got down to the kitchen, Marty had already made coffee and was sitting in the breakfast nook, staring out at the yard rather morosely.<p>

"Good morning, Sunshine," I teased. Usually that was all it took to make him smile, but today he only turned a glum grimace towards me. "Good gracious, Marty – what's the matter?" I asked as I pulled out a carton of eggs.

"Mr. Finch got in, late last night," he said, which made me whirl around to look at him in surprise. Ordinarily that would've made him as happy as a lark, so I didn't understand what the problem was until he explained, "He brought... the new guy with him. He's been... hurt."

"_What? __**Who's**_ been hurt, Mr. Finch or the new guy? And how bad is it?" I demanded, the eggs forgotten for the moment.

"The new guy. Nothing life-threatening, probably... We put him in the first floor bedroom."

"So is Mr. Finch all right?"

"Yeah, he's... fine."

"So how did the new guy get hurt? Was it on the job?"

"I... I don't know. He was shot... twice, I think."

"_**Shot?**__ How?_ Was it a robbery? Was he protecting Mr. Finch? Marty, for heaven's sake, what _**happened?**_"

"I don't know," he confessed, looking rather miserable. "I... I didn't even think to ask. I don't know if Mr. Finch would've told me, even if I had... You know how secretive and mysterious he's been, ever since... since he hired this guy..."

"Yes, but... surely, he would have told you _something_," I insisted, slightly frustrated. Marty was the sweetest man, but not always the brightest bulb in the box. Since he hadn't given me much information, I started thinking out loud. "If he's brought this new fellow here to recuperate, he must have been hurt on the job – Mr. Finch probably didn't want him in a hospital where he wouldn't get any rest with all the noise and commotion. Although I suppose he might bring him here even if he'd gotten hurt outside of work," I amended. "He's that kind and generous, you know... and in New York City, anybody could get caught up in a crime and get shot these days..."

Marty nodded slowly, looking down into his mug, and mumbled, "It... didn't even occur to me, that he might've been protecting Mr. Finch... but you're right. He might've taken those bullets for him... Maybe that's why he brought him here..."

"You and Jim have been wondering why Mr. Finch hired him to start with, when he's already got you two," I pointed out. "You said this fellow was probably a military man before, right? That he had some special training? Well, maybe Mr. Finch _knew_ that he might be attacked, or suspected that someone was up to something, and that's why he hired this fellow – to protect him from whatever was going to happen. Although I can't fathom _anybody_ wanting to hurt Mr. Finch... but then again, when you're as rich as he is, who knows what crazy people might do..."

Marty nodded again, but I got the feeling that he was only half-listening. Of course, he'd been on night duty (both he and Jim were scrupulous about their jobs, almost to a fault) and if Mr. Finch had arrived with a wounded man in the wee hours of the night, it was understandable that he'd be exhausted. I remembered that I was supposed to be making breakfast – and that I had two extra mouths to feed, now – and got busy making scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, oatmeal, and yogurt with fruit and jam.

"Marty, do you think the new fellow will be able to eat regular food?" I asked, trying to imagine what it would feel like to be shot, and failing.

"I... I don't know. I think so... He was awake and talking last night, anyway... or this morning, really..."

Jim came down the back stairs, dressed for the day but also looking a little tired.

"I heard you had some excitement last night," I said as he shuffled in and helped himself to coffee.

"Yeah! The new guy. Got shot in the gut and his right leg," Jim informed me. "Mr. Finch had him treated somewhere before he brought him here, but we had to clean him up and put him in Mr. Finch's clothes. It's a good thing Marty's big enough to pick him up! I think I'm going out to fetch the guy's stuff today, and he said something about his car, too. I don't know what he was doing for the boss when it all went south, but I guess he's lucky to be alive."

"We're lucky that _Mr. Finch_ is all right," I remarked while flipping the bacon. "Do you think they'll want breakfast now? I could keep some of this warm for them if they're not up yet..."

"I'll go take a look and see if they're awake," Jim offered. Marty sighed, audibly, over by the window. "What now, Big Guy?" Jim asked him.

"Nothing," was all he said in return, staring out at the yard again. Shrugging, Jim left to go to the front of the house, and came back a few minutes later with a troubled look on his face.

"I'm sorry, Big Guy," he said, going straight over to Marty to pat his back.

"What is it?" I asked, pausing in the middle of dishing out the scrambled eggs. Something had to be wrong for both of them to be acting so strangely.

"Well... they're still sleeping," he said, hesitating. "It's just... the new guy... he's... holding Mr. Finch's hand. Or vice versa. They look... very _cozy_, together..."

My mouth dropped open. So _that's_ it! No wonder Marty was so down. The new fellow that Mr. Finch had hired... he must have gotten close to him – _very_ close – in the past few months... which made sense, since Mr. Finch was keeping the strangest hours lately, staying out all night sometimes without even bothering to sleep at one of his apartments in the city. He hadn't been back to the house for almost two weeks, too. If he'd been spending all that time (or even a good portion of it) with the new fellow, it wasn't surprising that they'd gotten close. But... _holding hands?_ Now _that_ was a whole different story...

"Well. If Mr. Finch has found someone... _special_... we should be happy for him," I said, although I knew it wouldn't be easy for Marty. Poor Marty... He was such a nice fellow, but Mr. Finch had never seemed interested in him. Actually, Mr. Finch hadn't seemed interested in _anybody_ that way – he'd never brought home any lady friends, either. I hadn't expected him to be... attracted to other men, but if that was how he was, well... that was _his_ business, wasn't it? For my part, I couldn't ask for a nicer man to work for, and he certainly deserved all the happiness in the world – especially after all the pain he'd gone through from his accident.

All of us had been with Mr. Finch every step of the way through his rehab, helping him get around and taking care of his everyday needs. At first it was hard to even give him a shower... Jim would cover his sutures with pieces of Ziploc baggies and tape them to make sure that they were waterproof, and Marty would try to pick him up without hurting him and set him on the seat in the bathtub. Of course Marty wanted to be extra careful, since he had such a soft spot for the gentleman – it was pretty obvious that he adored him and practically worshiped the ground he walked on. I'd noticed it within a month of his coming to work for Mr. Finch. It was just... so sweet, the way he looked at him. But Mr. Finch either didn't notice or pretended not to – probably to spare Marty the embarrassment of an out-and-out rejection. But Marty didn't mind... he was just glad to be working for him, as were the rest of us.

It was a little hard for me to wrap my mind around the idea of Mr. Finch having a... a _boyfriend_, I guess he would be. I'd never met "the new guy" or even seen a picture of him, so I couldn't imagine what they would look like... _together_. I was really tempted to peek into the bedroom to see them holding hands, but I didn't want to go tiptoeing over there while Marty was still up. Maybe after he'd turned in, if they were still sleeping, I could go over with the breakfast tray to see if they were ready for some food.

I made sure that my two boys ate enough for breakfast, seeing as how they'd be busy for the foreseeable future. They aren't really _my_ boys, of course, and Jim is a bit too old to be my son, but that's how I think of them anymore. Even Mr. Finch, although he's my employer, seems like a nephew or some such. He doesn't seem to mind (much) when I fuss at him to get more sleep or to come home on the weekends – he knows I've only got his best interests at heart, bless him! Over the years, we've practically become a family... at least, as much of a family as three bachelors and an old widow could be. Sam and Caroline are a part of it, too, and we spend almost every Thanksgiving and Christmas together.

When Marty finally dragged himself upstairs to get some sleep (or try to), I put the kettle back on the stove. Jim eyed me over the newspaper with a shrewd look.

"You're planning on sneaking in there to catch a glimpse of the lovebirds, aren't you?" he flatly stated.

"Well... they have to eat _sometime_," I huffed. "Especially if the new fellow's hurt, he needs to get his strength back. What did you say his name was?"

"Mr. Reese. Although... Mr. Finch called him 'John' last night..."

"_**No!**_" I gasped. "Did he, really?"

Jim nodded. "Right in front of Marty, too. I thought the big guy was gonna keel right over! But just before that, while Marty was dragging the wing-back chair into the bedroom, I heard the guy call Mr. Finch 'Harold.' How's _that_ for cheek?"

"It sure _sounds_ cheeky," I admitted, "but if they're... you know... _involved_, then I suppose... it's just natural..." I reheated the scrambled eggs and bacon in the skillet, but didn't bother making new toast yet. "Tell me, Jim – what is this 'Mr. Reese' like? I know you said he was homeless before Mr. Finch found him..."

"Homeless _and_ an alcoholic. Marty said his breath alone could've knocked him over when we first picked him up at the police station," Jim reminded me. "He smelled like he'd been sleeping in the city dump, too. You heard how much trouble Sam had clearing out the car..."

"Of course I remember," I interrupted, a bit impatiently. "But I'm talking about _now_ – you said he'd cut his hair the last time you saw him. Is he good-looking? Charming? Smart? Funny? Surely, if Mr. Finch is interested in him, there must be more to him than the 'alcoholic bum' that Marty always talks about."

Jim considered it for a moment. "He's tall," he finally answered. "And I guess... you could say he's good-looking. He didn't look so hot when they came in last night, but getting shot doesn't help _anyone's_ looks, you know. I think he's smart... he'd have to be for Mr. Finch to hire him. I commented that he'd bled like a stuck pig when we were cleaning him up, and he just sorta laughed and said he was a 'shot pig,' so he must have a sense of humor..."

The food was hot again and the kettle was boiling, so I made some tea for Mr. Finch and loaded up the cart that I'd used so often while he was recovering from his injuries. I was anxious to see this "Mr. Reese" for myself.

"I'd better go with you," Jim said, folding the paper and getting up. "They might need some help moving him. He's hurt in the lower abdomen, so he'll be out of commission for a while... as I can attest to from my hernia surgery."

I tried to keep the cart as quiet as possible down the carpeted hallway, and Jim cracked open one of the double doors to check inside. I could hear Mr. Finch's light snoring as Jim nodded to me to take a peek. Sure enough, I could see Mr. Finch's arm resting on the bed next to the other man, who had our employer's hand clasped in his own. I couldn't suppress a smile, even though I knew the sight had to have broken Marty's heart – they just looked so _cute_ together!

Then the figure on the bed moved, and I could tell that he was looking at the door – at _me_.

"I think he's awake," I whispered to Jim.

"We probably woke him up," he sighed. "Damn guy is uncanny..."

Jim opened the door and crept in to whisper to Mr. Reese, and Mr. Finch stopped snoring and sat up.

"Mrs. Stuckley, please come in," Mr. Finch called out. "I'm sorry to have given you so little warning..."

"Nonsense, Mr. Finch. You know I always keep the larders stocked with enough food for an army," I said, wheeling in the cart.

"And it's a good thing that you do," he said, quickly letting go of the other man's hand. "Ah... Mrs. Stuckley, this is Mr. Reese. I'm sure you've heard of him," he added dryly.

"Oh, yes! I'm sorry that you've been hurt, Mr. Reese," I said, catching a glimpse of his angular face in the dim light as I pulled out the table for the hospital bed. "But not to worry – we'll take good care of you until you're back on your feet again."

"Thank you, Mrs. Stuckley," came a polite, gentle voice – hardly what I'd expected from a man hired for his military skills. "Something smells delicious."

"Would you like tea or coffee?"

"Coffee sounds _wonderful_," he said with fervent sincerity.

"Preferably decaf," Mr. Finch put in. "I'm sorry, Mr. Reese, but you need to rest as much as possible."

"Of course. Although you do realize, painkillers work better with caffeine..."

"Let's not start mixing your drugs just yet," Mr. Finch countered. "But that reminds me, you're probably ready for another dose..."

I left to make a fresh batch of coffee (thankfully I had decaf on hand) and toast. When I returned, Jim was standing guard outside of the door.

"They're not quite ready for you yet," he told me. "Bathroom duties."

"Oh! Oh, of course, the poor man," I replied. "But... if you're out here... does that mean...?"

Jim nodded with an expression of disbelief. "Yes. Mr. Finch _insisted_ that he be the one to help Mr. Reese."

"Well... Well, now, that's... _something_, isn't it?" was all I could think of to say.

We waited in silence until Mr. Finch himself opened the door, and after pouring some coffee for Mr. Reese and making sure that they both had everything they wanted, I opened up the curtains to let in some sunlight. It helped me get a better look at Mr. Reese as he ate his breakfast, and I was pleased to see that he wasn't just "good-looking," as Jim had begrudgingly conceded, but actually quite _handsome_. He still looked exhausted, which was understandable, but his eyes were warm and expressive – I swear they _twinkled_ when he caught me studying him – and the smile that curled his mouth was filled with good humor. Yes, I could definitely see why Mr. Finch would be attracted to him!

Jim had asked about his duties for the day, and Mr. Finch was telling him which hotel Mr. Reese had been staying at. _Hotel?_ I wondered. _Why wouldn't he have an apartment?_ It seemed strange to me, but maybe there was a good reason for that – Mr. Finch always had his reasons.

"It may be better not to check out immediately," Mr. Reese interrupted. "That might tip them off..."

"Ah... You're right. We can wait on that for a few days," Mr. Finch agreed after considering it. "Never mind checking out, Mr. Doherty, but you'll need the passkey to get in..."

"It's in my wallet, wherever that went..." Mr. Reese mentioned.

"Oh, I'm sorry! It must still be in your trousers... I tossed it in the wastebasket with everything else..."

"I'll get it," Jim said, stepping over to the wastebasket – which was overflowing with what must have been Mr. Reese's clothes. I could see a dark, reddish-brown stain on the white shirt. That had to be blood. And there was a _lot_ of it. When Jim fished a wallet out of the back pocket of the trousers (that looked tattered on one side), it was covered in blood, too – enough to drip.

"Good gracious!" I gasped before I could stop myself.

"Ah... yes. He was injured quite seriously," Mr. Finch explained to me, while Jim wiped off the wallet with a dry patch of the trousers.

"This must be the passkey," Jim said, pulling out a white card – it amazed me that hotel door locks looked like credit cards now. The wallet with the rest of its contents he set on the table.

"My clothes are either hanging in the closet or in the top drawer," Mr. Reese told him. "My... spare tools, are between the box spring and mattress. I have a few toiletries in the bathroom, but if they won't fit in the bag, don't worry about them."

"Duly noted," Jim responded with his usual efficiency.

"I had another wallet – a billfold – tucked into an inside pocket of the jacket," Mr. Reese said. "I suppose that's ruined, too..."

"Never mind your suit, John – we can go shopping for new clothes once you're better," Mr. Finch said.

"Of course it had to be my _favorite_ suit," Mr. Reese sighed.

"But they're all the _same_," Mr. Finch pointed out with a hint of exasperation.

"There are subtle differences... nuances," Mr. Reese insisted, in a tone that made me smile as I poured Mr. Finch another cup of tea. Oh, yes – he could keep Mr. Finch on his toes!

"Here's your billfold," Jim said, finding it and tossing it onto the bed. "At least you didn't bleed on _that_."

"Small favors," Mr. Reese muttered, mixing some jam into his oatmeal. "Oh, my gun is still in the car, under the passenger seat."

"I'll unload it and bring it in before Sam has a cow," Jim assured him, "although he'll have a cow anyway if you bled all over the seat..."

"Afraid so... mostly on the back seat. Not that I _wanted_ to, you know. And speaking of cars—"

"Mr. Reese, don't worry about it – Mr. Doherty is quite capable of taking care of it," Mr. Finch insisted, no doubt worried that the man was overexerting himself.

"I don't doubt that he's _capable_, Mr. Finch, but _**they**_ might be hanging around," Mr. Reese said with a meaningful look. "He's going to need a cover story – one that checks out."

"I'll get to work on it," Mr. Finch said, getting up out of his chair with his plate still half full.

"Mr. Finch," I put in, "whatever you need to do, I'm sure it can wait for a few minutes until you've finished your breakfast. Lord knows _what_ you've been eating while you've been gone, if _at all_, and we can't have you collapsing from malnourishment! I think _one_ patient is quite enough to handle at a time, don't you?"

"Ah... Yes, of course, Mrs. Stuckley," Mr. Finch meekly answered, sitting back down.

"I'm glad that you make sure he eats properly, Mrs. Stuckley," Mr. Reese said with a broad grin, which he didn't even attempt to hide. "If it eases your mind at all, I do try to get him to eat at normal hours, but when we're busy, sometimes the best we can do is Chinese take-out."

"_Chinese?_ All that sodium!" I cried out, horrified. "Mr. Finch, you know how bad that is for your blood pressure! _And_ mine..."

"Mrs. Stuckley, really... it's not that often," he protested weakly.

"It's bad enough that you work so late into the night – the boys have told me that you even stay up _all_ night, sometimes! We simply _must_ get you some decent nutrition. Lots of fresh fruit and vegetables, of course," I declared, making a mental grocery list.

"Uh... Mrs. Stuckley... you do realize, Mr. Reese is going to need a lot of protein to make up for his lost blood, and for his injuries to heal..."

"Of course I do, Mr. Finch, but that doesn't mean we have to clog his arteries with cholesterol or make his blood pressure skyrocket. I'll make sure you both eat good, balanced meals while you're here," I told him with grim determination. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Reese, that it took your getting hurt so badly for Mr. Finch to come home and bring you with him, but I have to confess that I'm rather glad your wounds will take a while to heal – at least while you're here, I can make sure that you're both well taken care of!"

"I'm relieved to hear you say so, Mrs. Stuckley," Mr. Reese replied earnestly. "I was worried that I'd lose my girlish figure while I was laid up... and it's so much harder to get back in shape, now... I'm not a spring chick anymore..."

"Don't you worry about a thing," I assured him, noticing that Mr. Finch was nervously nibbling on his toast. "We'll have you back on your feet and ship-shape in no time!"

* * *

><p>Caroline came over while I was still washing up the breakfast dishes, having heard of our new visitor – or member, really, since he was Mr. Finch's employee already – as well as the sad state of Mr. Finch's car.<p>

"Sam says there was blood everywhere," she told me, paling at the very thought. "How is he? Is he going to pull through, do you think?"

"Oh, yes – he seems well enough for having been shot," I answered. "Although I can't imagine how awfully it must have hurt to be shot, let alone _twice!_"

Shuddering at the thought, we headed out to the local grocery store. Caroline usually went with me when we did our weekly shopping, and even helped me prepare for big dinners, like when we knew Mr. Finch would be home. Her husband, Sam, had been Mr. Finch's driver for nearly twenty years now, and not long after 9-11 he had offered them the cottage on the edge of this property as a bonus for having Sam leave the limousine service and become his personal chauffeur. Their kids had all grown up by then so Caroline had been ecstatic about moving out here. For the past few years she had been babysitting her daughter's little boy, but he'd just started first grade this fall, leaving her at rather loose ends this season. We both agreed that having Mr. Finch as well as the new mystery man home was cause for celebration, and I was excited to whip up some of my best recipes.

On our drive out to the store, I told her as much as I could about Mr. Reese – how beautiful his eyes were, how soft-spoken and good-natured he was, and of course how sweet he had looked holding on to Mr. Finch's hand. She was thrilled to know that Mr. Finch had finally found someone special, even though she only saw him a few times a year. It was hard not to like the gentleman, with his charming smile and shy, eccentric little ways.

I'd been hired by Mr. Finch over fifteen years ago, right after Fred (my husband) had died of complications after surgery. He'd been a diabetic most of his life, and although I'd tried to keep it under control with a strict diet, he'd worked in construction where it was just too easy and too tempting to grab a "snack" from the street vendors whenever he felt like it. We hadn't had any children, so I'd worked as a school lunch lady for years, but when Fred was gone I realized that I had very little money in the bank and a lot of unpaid hospital bills that had been piling up over the years. I'd left all of the money matters to Fred, which had turned out to be a bad choice.

With not a lot of work experience to fall back on, I'd applied at a temp agency for work as a housekeeper and cook, and was grateful when Mr. Finch not only hired me but also actually _preferred_ to have me live in his house. It saved me the cost of rent and, he claimed, it gave him peace of mind to know that somebody was keeping an eye on things while he was in the city. The past few months he'd been especially busy and hadn't been home much, but at least the boys – Jim and Marty – were with me, so I had plenty of work to do and didn't feel as lonesome as I usually did, rattling around in this big house by myself. It still felt good to have Mr. Finch home, though... and I was bound and determined to make him want to stay.

For lunch I steam-cooked some fresh chicken breasts in stock, covering them in foil to keep the juices in, then cutting and tearing them to make a light, sweet salad with grapes, apples, and mandarin oranges. I didn't have time to make bread from scratch, but thankfully there were "half-baked" loaves in the freezer that I could pop in the oven and serve fresh and warm – they could make sandwiches with the chicken salad if they wanted to. I used the stock and drippings from the chicken to make soup, too, adding lots of celery and some homemade dumpling noodles. It was the best thing for a cold, and although none of the men were sick, I figured that it would be a good preventative measure.

Mr. Reese raved over the food, especially the soup, claiming that it was the best he'd had in years.

"Of course, I have to admit, I haven't had many home-cooked meals in recent years," he added with a wry grin. "But this really hits the spot."

"Oh, Mr. Reese... I wish I'd known!" I told him. "I would have sent some lunches with Mr. Finch! Lord knows what all preservatives are in the things they serve at the restaurants in town... And Mr. Finch," I said, rounding on him just as he took another bite of salad, "how come you didn't invite Mr. Reese for Thanksgiving dinner? It's not like I didn't make enough food for an army!"

"It's all right, Mrs. Stuckley – I already had plans," Mr. Reese said, charmingly coming to Mr. Finch's defense. "I don't know if you've heard, but I'd been living on the streets, homeless, before Mr. Finch gave me this job. I wanted to go back and help at the shelters where I'd been fed and cared for when I was down-and-out. It felt good to be able to give back..." He turned the sweetest, most tender smile towards Mr. Finch. "Thanks to Harold, I'm in a position to give back to them now. You've no idea how good it feels to be able to help... to have one's dignity back..."

Mr. Finch blushed in embarrassment and tried to hide it by wiping his mouth with his napkin. I couldn't help smiling as I went back to the kitchen to get Mr. Reese a second bowl of soup.


	8. Chapter 7 Jim Doherty Part 2

**Chapter 7 – Jim Doherty**, Part 2

2011/12/16, 10:31:14 – Seafarers & International House, New York

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><p>Mr. Finch had referred to it as a hotel, and I guess for all intents and purposes it was, but the white crosses on the blue awning made it pretty obvious that the place was run by some religious group. I was surprised to discover that the mysterious "Mr. Reese" was staying in this sort of establishment, but once I got inside his room, it made sense – for a hotel in lower Manhattan, it was pretty spacious and clean. He probably had one of the nicer rooms since it had a private bathroom, too. You could hardly tell that anyone was staying there, but I would expect that of him. Army, Navy – either way, you learned to boil down your possessions to the bare essentials.<p>

What I _hadn't_ expected to find was most of his underwear still in the original packaging. There was a pair each of socks and boxers outside of the bags in the top drawer, looking like they'd been worn and washed a few times, but the rest were still brand-new. It looked like he only used two at a time – wearing one set while washing the other – since there was a jug of laundry detergent under the sink. Talk about a minimalist! The only other clothes in the drawer were two t-shirts and a pair of jeans.

In the closet he had two suits (the boss was right – they _were_ identical) and four shirts hanging up, as well as a long coat, a leather jacket, and a beige jacket with utility pockets all over it. Apart from the electric razor and a few other toiletries, that was the sum total of his earthly possessions. You had to respect a guy who had that much discipline – a Zen approach to life, maybe. That is, other than his "spare tools," of course.

I'd known immediately what he'd meant by that, even without his sidelong glance at Mrs. Stuckley. He didn't want to alarm her and I appreciated that thoughtfulness, especially as I lifted the mattress and found his impressive collection of guns and ammo stashed there. Any doubts I might have had as to whether he'd been shot while on duty for Mr. Finch were blown away when I saw the tools of his trade – whatever he was doing for the boss, it was serious. Seriously dangerous.

The piece that I'd found under the seat of the car (before Sam saw it, thank God, or he'd have had a coronary) was a SIG-Sauer P226, which was a heavy-duty piece of equipment; however, it paled in comparison to the assault rifles, submachine guns, and grenade launchers that, presumably, Mr. Reese slept on every night. There was a large duffel bag with the ammunition, so I put the rest of the gear in it and covered them up with his clothes. His suits, coats, and dress shirts I kept on their hangers to save Mrs. Stuckley the trouble of pressing them. I managed to carry everything out to the car (not the bloodied one, but one of the other three that Mr. Finch owned) in one trip, including his jug of laundry detergent.

Picking up the car that the guy had abandoned was a more complicated issue. Mr. Finch had warned me that there would probably be federal agents (the "_they_" that Mr. Reese had mentioned) hanging around who would want to question me. He'd hacked into the hospital's computer system (don't ask me how he managed it – I don't know the first thing about computers, but Mr. Finch is as sharp as a tack) and created a patient account for me, making it look like I'd had a biopsy the day before. I asked Sam to drive around the hospital once so I could see where the agents were through the tinted glass, then had him drop me off where I could slip in without getting noticed. I navigated through the busy corridors, stopped at the gift shop to buy a vaseful of flowers (Mr. Reese's suggestion), and got out to the parking garage from a back door.

As expected, there was a guy in a trench coat (how cliché is that?) sniffing around the cars parked on the top level. He approached me as I was trying to fit the vase into the cupholder.

"Excuse me, sir, is this your car?" he demanded, flashing his badge so briefly that I couldn't tell if it were real or fake.

"No, it's the company car. What's it to you?" I countered. Mr. Finch said it was registered to one of his shell corporations, and had printed off some business cards with my name on it to make it look like I worked there. He said he'd fix my tax returns to match as well. The man thought of everything!

"And you left it parked here because...?" the agent asked.

"Not that it's any of your business, but I had a biopsy yesterday," I told him grudgingly. "What's with the twenty questions?"

"We're looking for a dangerous fugitive who might have left his vehicle here," he explained. "He's wanted for the shooting that happened here last night, as well as a dozen other cases."

"_What?_ There was a shooting, _here?_" I said, acting surprised and horrified. "And you haven't caught the guy yet? Christ, what is this town coming to... at a _hospital_ of all places!"

"Sir, can we have your name and contact information? Just in case we need to clarify some things..."

If I'd been on my own, I would've refused to give him anything, but Mr. Finch had printed out those business cards for me, after all, and given me directions what to do. "Here, this is my work number. Call the front desk and they'll get you to my boss, who signed out the car for me."

"We'll do that," the guy said, trying to make it sound like a threat. I didn't like the way he was looking me up and down, either... it gave me the creeps. So I couldn't resist calling out after him as he was leaving.

"Wait – you said the guy got away, but you're still looking for his car, _here?_"

He stopped and hesitated, but didn't answer.

"How the hell did he get away without his car?" I pointed out, keeping my smug satisfaction buried deep.

"That's... what we're trying to find out," the guy admitted, some frustration showing on his face. He stomped away to the relative shelter of the stairwell, no doubt to call his superiors and have someone run my ID.

It was just as well that he wasn't bothering to watch me, since once I got into the car, I had to adjust the seat so I could reach the pedals. Damn, but that Mr. Reese was tall! Not as tall as Marty, of course, but pretty damn close. I made sure the flowers wouldn't tip over (I didn't want the guy to give me grief for dousing his leather seats with water) before pulling out. Both Mr. Reese and Mr. Finch had worried that I might be tailed, but I took my time weaving through the downtown traffic and was confident that nobody was following me before I headed for home.

It's funny that Mr. Finch's mansion in the Hamptons felt more like "home" to me now than the house I'd lived in with my wife and kids for all those years... but Gloria and I had had a stormy marriage, and my memories there were not all pleasant. It had been tough while I was in the Navy, so when I got out and started working for a security firm, I assumed that things would get better. But I was gone so much of the time, working odd hours, that I didn't realize how much Gloria resented being the only parent to our three kids. By the time I started working for Mr. Finch directly, we weren't arguing as much, but that was only because Gloria had given up on me. I wasn't really surprised when I figured out that she was having an affair.

What did surprise me was that she hadn't wanted a divorce – claimed some shit about staying together for the kids' sake. The guy she was sleeping with was apparently married, too, and Gloria didn't expect him to leave his wife for her. So, for all intents and purposes we're separated, but legally we're still married. Go figure! But it was a hell of a lot less messy than going through with a divorce – not to mention cheaper, since we didn't have to shell out for the lawyers – and we were both fairly satisfied with the arrangement. Mr. Finch had always had a room set aside for me in his house, in case I needed to stay over, and was kind enough to let me live there now; I went to see the kids on my days off; and Gloria could have her boyfriend over whenever she wanted. It felt weird to be cuckolded so blatantly, and I didn't see how it was any better for the kids, but they seemed to be all right with it. I guess I'd been absent from their lives for so long that it didn't make that much of a difference where I slept.

Marty once asked me why I still wore my wedding band... he knew that I wasn't hoping to get back together with Gloria, so why keep up the sham? But it just felt easier when hanging out with the kids to pretend like I was still part of the family. Evan, the oldest, was in his junior year of college, and probably didn't give a shit – he was more worried about fooling around with his girlfriend than what his old man was up to, as long as his tuition bill was paid. Annette was a senior in high school, hoping to get a scholarship to a business college, and the last time we talked she'd wanted to study Disaster Management. I'd joked that she would be able to help me with my marriage, and she'd rolled her eyes but was trying to suppress a smile – she had the teenager attitude but I could still talk to her, at least. Shelley was Daddy's girl, same as always; she's the one who kept me up-to-date on everyone, sending me text messages on my phone almost every day. It was hard to believe that she was in seventh grade already... just starting to get interested in boys. I'd gone through it with Annette before, but somehow it seemed different with my baby... made me feel older.

Realizing that I was getting homesick for my kids (if that's the right word) since it was so quiet in the car, I turned on the radio – partly out of curiosity, too, to check out what our "Mr. Reese" was listening to. The pre-programmed channels were mostly news or talk radio, and then there was a jazz station. Huh. Interesting. I liked a little jazz, myself, so I settled in for the drive with that station for company. Mr. Finch said music distracted him when he was trying to think, so when Marty or I rode with him into town or back, it was a long, quiet drive. I wondered if the boss ever listened to jazz, now that he was... dating, or seeing, the new guy... The image of them holding hands, Mr. Finch curled up in his chair right next to the guy's bed, came back to haunt me.

I could've done without seeing _that_, trust me, let alone how Mr. Reese had stroked one finger over the boss's arm to wake him up. Marty has always been discreet with his boyfriends (no PDAs) so it'd never bothered me, but the way this guy acted around Mr. Finch... it was almost like he was _seducing_ him, right in front of our eyes! Of course, with two bullet holes in him, it would be a long time before they could do anything more than hold hands and whisper sweet nothings, so I probably should give them a break... But I felt bad for Marty. Not that I didn't think it was high time for him to move on, but still... it had to be tough to see someone you cared about falling in love with someone else. Especially when that someone else had knocked you out of commission with one blow. My nose ached at the mere memory of that blow.

Marty and I have worked together for so many years that I really think of him like one of my kid brothers. I have two, both older than Marty, but I hardly ever see them anymore (plus they seem to be doing all right with _their_ families) so Marty's a pretty good substitute. I wondered if he were getting any sleep now, after having seen the two lovebirds with his own eyes... Doubtful. Poor guy would be no good to the boss if he didn't get some rest, though... Maybe I should give him some tranquilizers or sleeping pills. Mr. Reese's injuries looked like they would take a while to heal, and if he was going to spend most of that time at the mansion, I needed to look after my partner.

I was so busy planning what drugs to give Marty as well as how to convince him to let go of his obsession with Mr. Finch that I pulled into the driveway almost before I knew it. Having jazz playing in the background must've helped, too. I parked the Volkswagen in one of the empty spots in the garage (which looks like a small aircraft hangar) and talked to Sam – who had just finished cleaning the blood out of the other car – before heading into the house. Mrs. Stuckley was tickled pink at the flowers, but was worried that Marty hadn't come down to eat yet, so I went upstairs and knocked lightly on his door. He was awake, as I'd suspected, and out of sorts of course, but I persuaded him to come downstairs and eat lunch. I knew Mrs. Stuckley's homemade soup would make him feel better.

The big guy was sleepier than ever after filling his stomach with good food, which was probably why he followed me to the front of the house as I went to check on Mr. Finch and Mr. Reese, to give them a report if they were awake. I was patting Marty's back as he lumbered, zombie-like, towards the main stairway, when we were both frozen in our tracks by the sudden cry that came from the first floor bedroom.

"Harold, _**no!**_ For the love of God and all that's _**holy!**_"

It was Mr. Reese's voice, raised in what seemed tantamount to panic. It was unnerving to hear him – Mr. Cool and In Control – sound so frantic. I couldn't help myself... I crept closer to the door to listen.

"Calm down, Mr. Reese. You're overreacting," came Mr. Finch's slightly annoyed voice. Marty was right beside me, too, his eyes wide open and alert now.

"Overreacting? You think _this_ is overreacting? Here I am, helpless as a new-born infant, and you're proposing to shove tha—that _thing_ up my ass, and you think I'm _**overreacting?**_"

"Well, you're certainly _acting_ like a baby! It's not that big, and it will hardly hurt at all – especially compared to getting _shot_."

"Easy for _you_ to say – you're not the one getting that... that _monstrosity_ shoved up your ass!"

Marty and I exchanged glances. We'd helped Mr. Finch shower during his recuperation, so we both knew that he was... well endowed... in a... _manly_ way...

"Oh, for Christ's sake, John! It's not like I'm going to stuff it in, _willy-nilly_," our boss was saying, sounding rather exasperated. "I'll open you up with my fingers first, and use plenty of Vaseline – look, I have a whole, brand-new jar that I can use just for you! And for your information, I've had this done to me, _many_ times, so I think I know what I'm doing. I'll be very careful not to hurt you, and even if there _is_ some... slight discomfort, I can assure you that it will be well worth it in the end."

Marty's mouth was hanging open in shock, and I must've been mirroring his expression. This was _**way**_ more than I wanted to know, but I couldn't move. I couldn't even budge an inch.

There was a slight pause before Mr. Reese spoke again, and when he did it was in a querulous, almost plaintive tone.

"Promise?"

"Promise... what?"

"Promise you'll be... gentle? It's my... first time..."

"_Of course_, John! You know I would never hurt you. You just need to trust me on this."

"I recall someone saying... 'Trust isn't something I come by easily'..."

"I believe... I hope, anyway, that we've come a long way in establishing our relationship since then, John."

"All right... Just... _please_... go slowly."

"I will, I promise. Try to relax... Think of something else... Think of something... _pleasant_."

"Like what?"

"Whatever makes you feel calm and relaxed. What about the ocean? The waves rolling in, the water lapping at your feet, the sand between your toes..."

"That does sound nice... I can't remember the last time I was on a beach," Mr. Reese confessed, in a tone that was decidedly less stressed.

I couldn't say the same for Marty. His eyes were bugging out, and no wonder – even _I_ was having a hard time not imagining what Mr. Finch was doing to the new guy right now.

"Once you get a bit better, John – well enough to sit in a wheelchair – we can go down to the beach. The water is frigid, so we'll have to bundle up against the wind, but... I find the fresh sea breeze invigorating, even in the winter..."

"Mmm," Mr. Reese moaned. "That would be... lovely..."

"How am I doing so far? Does it hurt at all?"

"No... It's a bit... uncomfortable, but I'm all right."

"I'll add some more Vaseline, just to be on the safe side," Mr. Finch said.

Marty closed his eyes and a pained expression crossed his face. I knew I needed to get him away – _drag_ him away if necessary – so he wouldn't hear any more of this. I managed to take a step towards him and grabbed his arm; however, there was one flaw in my plan – Marty is _much_ heavier than I am. If the big guy doesn't want to move, there is no way I can move him. And despite the agony this was obviously causing him, he wouldn't budge. He just clutched my shoulders, his eyes squeezed shut in a hopeless effort to keep his tears from falling, and stood there.

"Oh! Ow..." Mr. Reese's voice came through the doors.

"I'm sorry, did that hurt?" Mr. Finch asked with genuine concern.

"A little... Is that... just your finger?"

"Well, yes, but... _two_ fingers, actually. How are you holding up?"

"All right, I guess... Mmm... I've never been... touched like this... before..."

"Not even by your proctologist?" Mr. Finch prodded dryly.

"That's a... _different_ sort of touch, Harold."

The purring in his voice made all of the hairs on my body stand on end; I couldn't even _begin_ to imagine what it was doing to poor Marty. But still, the kid wasn't responding to my tugging. I was at my wit's end.

"I suppose... I think you're ready now, John."

"Oh... All right."

"Take a deep breath..."

A long, drawn-out groan followed, during which Marty gripped my shoulders so hard that I thought they'd be dislocated.

"Ohhh... Harold..."

"Too much? Shall I pull it out?"

"No... No, I'm fine. It's feels so... _huge_, though..."

"Well, that's to be expected – your body isn't used to having foreign objects placed in it."

I watched the tears stream down Marty's face as he struggled to breathe without sobbing. It was excruciating just watching him, but what could I do?

"Are you all right?" Mr. Finch was asking the new guy. "Can I put it in deeper?"

"Yes... Oh, yes, Harold... You can put it in all the way... I want to feel it... _completely_ inside of me..."

Marty gulped. There was a sharp, almost strangled intake of breath from inside of the room, which I recognized as Mr. Finch. I didn't know if it was because he'd heard Marty, or because... he was pressing into his "John."

"Deeper, Harold... please... I can take it, don't worry," the guy told him.

"All right, then," came Mr. Finch's voice, sounding rather strained. He must have realized that we were eavesdropping – or at least, that Marty was. I tried to shake Marty, as though I could shake him loose from where his feet had grown roots through the floor, but it was no use.

"Oh! Ohhh... so hot..." came the sultry voice of the new guy, oblivious to the pain he was causing Marty. It made me mad, even though it _was_ Marty's own damn fault for not just walking away.

"I'm going to pour this into you now, John," I heard Mr. Finch say, a hard edge to his voice. "Try to curb your excitement, if you can."

"I can't... Oh! Oh, Harold... so hot... I can feel it... you're filling me up... all that hot, wet stuff... Mmm, Harold... _Harold!_"

Marty was shaking of his own accord now, with big, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. He was still clinging to me, and although I knew I'd have bruises on my shoulders for several days, I didn't have the heart to pull his hands off of me (even if I could have succeeded, which I doubt). The kid needed my support, now more than ever, and that was exactly what he'd get.

"I'm done, John... That wasn't worth all that fuss, was it? You were worried over nothing," Mr. Finch said wearily. "Now, I want you to hold it until I get back – try not to make a mess, please."

"I won't. I promise," Mr. Reese replied, sounding happy and satisfied. It made me sick to my stomach. I tried one last time to get Marty to move, and he did manage to take two steps towards me, but then he just wrapped me in a crushing bear hug and refused to let go. A minute later, we could hear some movement going on inside of the bedroom.

"There... if you can just roll back... That should be just about right. Now you can let it all out, John – I'm sure it's been hard to wait."

"It _has_. But Harold... I need you to... squeeze me, with your hands... your wonderful, warm, gentle hands..."

I thought I heard a sigh, but I couldn't be sure. The next moment, Mr. Reese's cries filled the air.

"Oh! Oh, it's coming... Oh, Harold... It's all coming out... every last drop of it... Oh! _Oh! __**Oh! OHHH!**_"

Wringing every last ounce of strength into one final effort, I heaved Marty – bear hug and all – down the hallway, just a little bit. I had adrenalin on my side, since I was worried that Mr. Finch might come out and find us here – it was bad enough that he suspected that we'd been eavesdropping on such a... private, _intimate_ moment, but to be caught red-handed would be... unbearable.

After a few tottering steps, Marty finally caught on to what I was trying to do, and began helping me by moving his feet. I could tell that it was costing him a great effort in his present state of mind, but was more relieved than words could tell when we made it into the relative safety of the kitchen. Thankfully, Mrs. Stuckley was resting in her room upstairs, so I didn't have to explain to her why Marty was pale, sweating, and crying like he had the flu and a hangover and a broken heart all at once. After letting him cry it out a bit more, I helped him get upstairs and into his bed, where he curled up into a fetal position and succumbed to unconsciousness.

I had no such luxury. I still had to report to my employer on the errands that he had asked me to run. And do it without so much as a hint that I knew what he'd been up to (no pun intended) with Mr. Reese. It was gonna be a long day...


	9. Chapter 8 John Reese Part 2

**Chapter 8 – John Reese**, Part 2

2011/12/16, 08:49:07 – Finch Estate, Southampton (Village), New York

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><p>I woke up with my senses on high alert – there had been some noise or movement that had awoken me. I saw that the double doors of the unfamiliar room were open a crack and caught a glimpse of someone standing outside, watching me. When my stomach muscles reflexively tensed at the potential threat, my memories of the night before came flooding back with the pain: I'd been shot and brought to Finch's house; I'd fallen asleep holding Finch's hand; and it was probably one of Finch's people checking on us.<p>

I looked over at Finch, discovering that he had let me sleep all night with his hand still clasped in mine. He was snoring peacefully in his chair, looking uncharacteristically unguarded and... innocent. Childlike, even. I was glad that he was resting so well, but a whiff of bacon came in with one of the bodyguards – Mr. Doherty, I remembered – who asked in a low voice how I was doing.

"Not bad, all things considered," I told him, then ran my finger lightly over the back of Finch's hand and up his arm. He stirred and snorted, blinking as he gained his bearings, and I couldn't quite stifle the smile that crept into my face as a long-forgotten warmth flooded my chest.

"Breakfast is ready, Sir, if you are," Doherty said.

"Ah! Thank you, Mr. Doherty," Finch responded, then noticed the older woman at the door (a grandmother figure with her gray hair done up in a neat little bun) and called her in, hastily removing his hand from mine in embarrassment.

The woman, whom he called Mrs. Stuckley, pushed a cart loaded with covered plates ahead of her, bringing the tantalizing aroma of breakfast nearer. After Finch introduced us and as she bustled about chatting and pouring tea for him, I was struck by her sincere concern for not only her employer but also for me, and realized that she was probably the single most important factor that made this house a "home" for Finch. She offered me tea or coffee, and I gratefully asked for coffee – my mouth felt like I'd had cotton balls stuffed in it all night, no doubt from Finch's medication.

"Preferably decaf," Finch put in. "I'm sorry, Mr. Reese, but you need to rest as much as possible."

"Of course. Although you do realize, painkillers work better with caffeine..." I hinted, craving my morning fix.

"Let's not start mixing your drugs just yet," he said, a gentle reproof hidden in his words. "But that reminds me, you're probably ready for another dose..."

He struggled to stand up before giving me two more pills, one of which I palmed. Call it a compromise – I didn't want to be completely knocked out, but I didn't want to deal with the full force of the pain, either. And I knew (better than Finch, even though he claimed to know "exactly everything" about me) that some pain was good – it kept me from overexerting myself when I needed to rest, as was the case now.

At the moment, though, I had a more pressing issue on my mind (or actually, another part of my anatomy) since Doherty had raised the bed so that the upper half of my body was in a near sitting position. Mrs. Stuckley left the room to make my coffee and I seized the opportunity, seeing that Doherty was inspecting the almost empty IV bag.

"I think I've been hydrated quite enough, Mr. Doherty," I remarked. "Can you disconnect me now?"

"Oh!" was the response, not from Doherty but from Finch. "I'm so sorry – where are my manners... Mr. Doherty, would you please give us a moment and watch the door so that Mrs. Stuckley doesn't come in here before we're ready?"

Finch hobbled over to the cupboards lining the far wall as he spoke and pulled out a plastic urinal from the section below the sink, cluing in Doherty as to his intentions – much to my relief. He had picked up on my subtle hint immediately. Doherty nodded and moved to the doors, and I couldn't help smirking as Finch approached me with the container.

"Are you going to help me with that?" I teased.

"Only if you need me to; but I believe your arms and hands are still fully functional," he returned in his usual dry tone. "The wet wipes are flushable, so you can just stuff them in here when you're done. And if you'll excuse me, I'll give you some privacy and attend to my own toilet..."

He disappeared through a separate door in the wall with the cupboards, and I caught a glimpse of a shower curtain – this bedroom must have its own bathroom as well as the kitchenette stocked with medical supplies. I longed for the day when I could stand in a shower on my own again and revel in a spray of hot water; until then, I supposed sponge baths and wet wipes would have to do. But if Finch were going to help me with those, they wouldn't be entirely un-enjoyable, either.

I slipped the extra pill into my pillowcase (for lack of a better hiding place within reach) and gratefully relieved my bladder. Long nights on stakeouts had made me pretty efficient at urinating into empty bottles, so the urinal was luxurious by comparison. I'd cleaned up with a wipe and set the container down on the floor by the time Finch limped back out, carrying a plastic basin. I felt bad to see how stiff he was, knowing that sleeping in the chair had made it worse for him.

"You know, Harold... this bed is rather large," I began, softly so that Doherty couldn't hear me through the doors. "I could move over and give you enough space to stretch out on."

"Do you expect me to keep vigil over you _every_ night, now?" Finch said, his eyebrows rising (though I detected a note of humor) as he gave me a sidelong glance. He set the basin down on the table that fit over the bed.

I shrugged. "I could take a turn for the worse at any time... run a fever from an infection, pull out my stitches in my sleep... and I don't know how _safe_ I would be in the care of Mr. DeYoung..."

He sighed at my little barb as he rolled the table over to me and said, "You should wash your hands with water – the wipes are convenient and anti-bacterial, but they leave a chemical residue. Your face, too, if you'd like." He pulled out a washcloth from one trouser pocket and a travel case with bar soap from the other. "As to your proposal... we shall see how you're faring by the evening."

I smiled to myself at his choice of words – "proposal" after his embarrassing slip (possibly Freudian?) last night about my asking for his hand. "It's just a suggestion, Harold. It's not like I'm asking you to sing me to sleep with lullabies."

"Which is just as well – you would have nightmares if I did," he said with a wry grin hiding in one corner of his mouth, then bending over with some difficulty to pick up the urinal.

"I wouldn't mind staying up if you kept me company," I said to his retreating back.

I heard the toilet flush a moment later and realized that he'd dumped my urine in with his own, which (in a perverted way) actually stimulated my vague morning erection. The thought of our bodily fluids being mixed together made me think of _other_ bodily fluids that could be swirled around together, given the right circumstances... but it just seemed like such an intimate thing to have him taking care of me like this, and after playing our game of cat-and-mouse for so long, it felt good to lay everything out in the open: my weaknesses and limitations as well as Finch's home life. Maybe it wasn't "everything" quite yet, but it was a start.

Finch opened the double doors to let in both Doherty and Mrs. Stuckley, and I was finally revived with a cup of coffee – decaf, but still soothing to my dry throat. Mrs. Stuckley opened the curtains after serving us breakfast, and I caught her looking at me. No doubt she was as curious about me (the mystery employee that used to be a bum) as I was about Finch's past. Perhaps if I could get her alone, sometime, we'd be able to swap stories.

Doherty asked Finch what he needed him to do today, and although I was glad to know that he would be collecting my stuff from the hotel room, I cautioned against checking out just yet – I knew Mark and his cronies would be on the lookout for that sort of activity. As Doherty pulled out my wallet from my trousers in order to get the passkey, I saw anew what a sorry state my clothes were in after getting shot through, bled on, and cut open by the doctor. Even my wallet was soaked in blood. Poor Mrs. Stuckley gasped in horror, but Doherty calmly wiped it off before putting it on the table, retrieving the passkey. The efficiency of his movements also reinforced my first impression of him that he'd been in the Service.

"My clothes are either hanging in the closet or in the top drawer," I told him. "My... spare tools, are between the box spring and mattress. I have a few toiletries in the bathroom, but if they won't fit in the bag, don't worry about them."

"Duly noted," Doherty replied unflappably, knowing right away what I'd meant.

"I had another wallet – a billfold – tucked into an inside pocket of the jacket," I mentioned. It was the one with my various aliases, but I made light of it by adding, "I suppose that's ruined, too..."

"Never mind your suit, John – we can go shopping for new clothes once you're better," Finch promised.

"Of course it had to be my _favorite_ suit," I whined with a dramatic sigh.

"But they're all the _same_," Finch protested, slightly annoyed. They were, but I wasn't about to admit it.

"There are subtle differences... nuances," I insisted, although if he pressed me to name them, I'd be backed into a corner.

"Here's your billfold," Doherty said, tossing it onto the bed and inadvertently rescuing me. "At least you didn't bleed on _that_."

"Small favors," I mumbled, and poured some strawberry jam into my oatmeal. The red goo made me think of blood, too, which naturally reminded me of getting shot. "Oh, my gun is still in the car, under the passenger seat," I alerted Doherty.

"I'll unload it and bring it in before Sam has a cow," he replied, "although he'll have a cow anyway if you bled all over the seat..."

"Afraid so... mostly on the back seat. Not that I _wanted_ to, you know. And speaking of cars—"

"Mr. Reese, don't worry about it – Mr. Doherty is quite capable of taking care of it," Finch interrupted.

"I don't doubt that he's _capable_, Mr. Finch, but _**they**_ might be hanging around," I said with a pointed look. "He's going to need a cover story – one that checks out."

"I'll get to work on it," Finch said, leaving his breakfast with the intention of taking care of it immediately. Mrs. Stuckley put her foot down, though, and I couldn't keep a smirk from spreading across my face as he obeyed her and sat back down to finish his food.

"I'm glad that you make sure he eats properly, Mrs. Stuckley," I said in a confidential tone. "If it eases your mind at all, I do try to get him to eat at normal hours, but when we're busy, sometimes the best we can do is Chinese take-out."

"_Chinese?_ All that sodium!" she cried out, scandalized. "Mr. Finch, you know how bad that is for your blood pressure! _And_ mine..."

She continued to rant for a minute and promised to take good care of both of us with a wholesome diet.

"I'm relieved to hear you say so, Mrs. Stuckley," I said as earnestly as I could without cracking up. "I was worried that I'd lose my girlish figure while I was laid up... and it's so much harder to get back in shape, now... I'm not a spring chick anymore..."

"Don't you worry about a thing," she declared while Finch tried not to choke on his toast. "We'll have you back on your feet and ship-shape in no time!"

* * *

><p>After Finch gave Doherty a back-story for being at the hospital, we both dozed for the rest of the morning, although Finch pretended to be reading his book. He was definitely snoring a good bit of the time, his book propped up on his tray table, though he wasn't so loud as to bother me. In fact, it was rather comforting to hear him right next to my bed. I was still exhausted from everything – getting shot can take a lot out of you, not to mention hobbling down several flights of stairs on an injured leg – so it was reassuring to know that one word would get Finch's attention if I needed it.<p>

Mrs. Stuckley woke us up by carting in a simple but delicious lunch, with a home-made chicken soup that nearly reduced me to tears. Maybe it was because of the medication, or maybe because the pain was increasing as the drugs wore off, but I sensed that my emotions were closer to the surface than I'd allowed them to be in a long while. I knew that I had to be on my guard; however, when Mrs. Stuckley scolded Finch for not having invited me over for Thanksgiving, I jumped in before Finch could defend himself.

"It's all right, Mrs. Stuckley – I already had plans," I told her. "I don't know if you've heard, but I'd been living on the streets, homeless, before Mr. Finch gave me this job. I wanted to go back and help at the shelters where I'd been fed and cared for when I was down-and-out. It felt good to be able to give back..." The smile that formed on my face was entirely genuine, and I wanted Finch to know it. "Thanks to Harold, I'm in a position to give back to them now. You've no idea how good it feels to be able to help... to have one's dignity back..."

Finch actually blushed, making my heart skip for a split second. He looked so _adorable_ when he was flustered! (Which is, of course, why I can't seem to stop myself from teasing him at every opportunity.) Mrs. Stuckley seemed pleased to hear how appreciative I was of our employer, and when I asked for seconds of her wonderful soup, I knew I'd won her over – which was a good thing, as she'd already won _me_ over with her cooking!

After lunch, Finch tried to give me another dose of the painkillers, but this time I rebelled to his face and took only one pill.

"John, you know that you're safe here, don't you? I have the best security system in the world monitoring the perimeter," Finch said – although I'd already assumed that.

"I know, Finch; but I'm just not comfortable with being knocked out completely. The last time that happened, I woke up in a strange hotel room, handcuffed to the bed," I replied with a straight face.

He gave up and swallowed the other pill himself, so I said "Cheers!" before swallowing mine.

"We do make a pair," he said with a faint smile before settling back into his chair.

"Or a couple," I amended. "The offer's still good on this prime real estate, you know. And I promise I won't hog the covers..."

He looked at me askance as I patted the bed invitingly.

"How generous of you," he said in a monotone, then pulled over his little tray table with the laptop. "But I have a few things to attend to. Why don't you get some rest like a gunshot wound patient should? And if the time seems to drag by too slowly, I can always give you another pill to knock you out – unconsciousness does have its benefits, you know..."

"No thanks. Just don't work too hard yourself, Harold," I cautioned, tugging the pillow into a more comfortable spot. I fell asleep to the familiar rhythmic tapping of his fingers on the keyboard.

* * *

><p>When I opened my eyes it was to almost total silence. Even the furnace in the house must have shut down for the moment. I found Finch staring back at me with a contemplative look – as though he'd been studying my sleeping face as the backdrop to something more complex going on in his mind. Even after all this time working with him, I still didn't hold the key to unlocking every one of his expressions, but my closest guess right now was... regret. I decided to go out on a limb and test my theory.<p>

"Buyer's remorse?" was my opening gambit.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Are you having second thoughts about hiring me?" I explained, trying to keep my tone neutral.

"Why would you say that?" Finch's forehead creased in sincere confusion.

"Because now that my 'friends' at the Agency know I'm alive, they won't give up until they find me."

"Oh, I was aware that they would become a threat sooner or later – although this is somewhat sooner than I had hoped," Finch stated evenly. "The moment you allowed yourself to be taken into police custody, I knew they would run your prints, which would in turn trigger a search by your old 'friends.' If I had considered that too great a risk to our enterprise, I wouldn't have approached you in the first place. But I knew that they wouldn't be a match for your evasive skills, Mr. Reese; and in fact, they would never have gotten so close if Ms. Carter hadn't handed you over to them – after you'd saved her life, no less!" He grimaced in distaste as I digested what he was telling me. "No, if I have any regrets, it's that I hadn't been able to... recruit you, for this job, before you were taken by the police. But your evasive skills made it quite difficult for _me_ to catch up to you as well. I'd been watching you as best I could for some time, and I'd actually sent Mr. DeYoung to one of the shelters where I thought you were staying, but for whatever reason you had left the premises by the time he arrived. It was only because you were in police custody, ultimately, that I was able to speak to you."

"I was trying to make it difficult – if not impossible – for _them_ to find me," I responded. "I have to admit, I was impressed that you'd been able to find me at all."

Finch's lips quirked to one side as he checked a smile. "It wasn't easy, John. For a long time I wondered if you weren't a figment of my imagination – a ghost, if you will, created by my desperate need to find you. I questioned my own judgment... wondered if it weren't just wishful thinking to believe that you were still alive. But then I'd catch another glimpse of you on some security camera – like the time you beat off the thugs who were trying to steal a homeless man's shoes. You disappeared as soon as the patrol car pulled up, but there was enough footage of the fight (even though it was a grainy, low-quality picture) to give me hope that it _was_ you, roaming the streets of New York."

I remembered that incident now – the poor guy was schizophrenic or something, constantly muttering about the centipedes in his clothes, but he'd just gotten a decent pair sneakers from a rescue mission. Without them, I knew he would get frostbite and eventually lose his toes since he refused to sleep at any of the shelters (claiming that the Communists would assassinate him) so I hadn't had a choice – I'd broken a couple of bones and punched out several teeth before the beat cop had shown up. That seemed like a lifetime ago...

"Harold, even if I play it smart and manage to evade them in the future," I pointed out, getting back to the problem at hand, "it will still put a crimp in our operation. Now that they're on to me, things will be... more complicated." I took a deep breath, hoping that my reluctance wouldn't show. "It's also going to take me a while to recover from this. Like I told Mrs. Stuckley, I'm no spring chick – I can't rebound as fast as I used to. So if you need to find someone else for this job, I understand."

Harold opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out for a long moment. Then unexpectedly, he sat up in his chair and leaned forward to grab my hand.

"John, I would never consider replacing you, unless you were truly so injured or... burned out, that you felt like you couldn't go on," he said, his eyes searching out mine with a warmth and kindness that I hadn't seen in them before last night. "If you want out, I want you to be honest with me and say so; but as long as you're willing to continue, I'd rather wait for you to recover than to take my chances on someone else – who might have a similar level of skill but not the same degree of _conviction_. I need someone who will make this cause his own, who is dedicated to helping people, and who is committed to making the world a better place, even if it doesn't seem like we're making much progress sometimes. I've found that man in _you_, John... and I couldn't ask for better. In fact, I don't think any of the other candidates would have even come _close_. So don't worry about the Numbers that come up while you're recuperating. I'll do what I can with anonymous tips and other means at my disposal – maybe you can help me with some ideas, too – but I'd rather know that the job is being done _right_ than risk bringing in someone else who might botch things horribly... even compromise our security."

It was hard not to let my emotions get the better of me, especially after Finch described the qualities that he had been looking for and which (apparently) I had filled. I latched on to his last few words, though, and forced a grin onto my trembling lips.

"All that flattery... when you're just worried that making it a threesome would 'compromise security'," I joked.

"Safety first, Mr. Reese," he deadpanned. "It's a dangerous world out there, and I don't like to take chances."

"You took a chance on me," I remarked, more surprised about it now that I knew Finch better.

"Yes. A calculated risk, of course... but one that I haven't regretted. Even if you _can_ be a pain in the ass, sometimes."

I was glad to have something to laugh over – or at least chuckle. The ache in my gut was a constant reminder that any strenuous exertion would be punished by waves of searing, nausea-inducing pain.

"I think I'll take that other pill now," I murmured, reaching into the pillowcase and pulling out the one from this morning.

"John! What the hell..." Finch trailed off.

"I was saving it for later. Can you hand me the water?" I asked with aplomb. "I told you, I don't like to be knocked out – whether it's by pills or by sharp blows to the head."

"So I see," he sighed with resigned irritation, handing me the water bottle so I could drink the pill more easily. Our fingertips touched as he took it back, and I had to repress the shiver that ran through my body. Perhaps he felt it, too, since he was slightly more guarded as he sat down and regarded me again.

"I don't have any 'buyer's remorse' about having hired you, John," he said softly, "but I will admit that I have some regrets about this whole... project. I know that you're quite capable in what you do, but still... you're only human. You're not indestructible. And this incident has made me acutely aware of the danger that I'm sending you into with every case. Granted, the worst threat has been posed (and probably will be in the future as well) by your former associates with the Agency, but even when you're investigating the Numbers... you've been exposed to a great deal of risk. And I want to be sure that... that you'll know when to quit – that you won't endanger yourself more than necessary, and that you'll let me know when you've reached your limit. That you'll be honest enough with me to tell me, as well as honest enough with yourself to admit it."

I blinked a couple of times as I considered this, while Finch's gaze never left my face.

"I think I can promise you that," I finally answered. "I don't particularly _like_ getting shot... and I don't think I've taken unnecessary risks, even if I've made some... poor choices." Not that I really regretted telling Carter about the two assassins who'd been out to get those girls – just the timing of my call. "As for knowing when to quit... I hope I'll be able to recognize it, although I'm not sure where exactly that line is... I'd like to think I'll know, anyway. If _you_ think that I'm beginning to slip, though, or lose my touch, I need you to be honest enough to tell me, too."

"Agreed," Finch said, his expression softening somewhat. "And here's something else to keep in mind: if things get too 'hot' here in New York and your 'friends' start closing in on us, we can always relocate to some other major city. The Machine sends me the Numbers for citizens around the country – around the world, in fact – but I've been narrowing them down to those in the New York area. I chose this city as the base of my operations because it's the most populous and has the highest rate of crimes _per capita_, which statistically gives us the opportunity to do the most good; however, there are plenty of other cities where we would be almost equally busy."

I processed this novel concept as I continued to study his face, feeling rather overwhelmed by what he was willing to do – how much he was willing to sacrifice – for the cause. "But Finch... what about your people? This house, your companies..."

He waved a hand dismissively. "It's just a house, John, and I can run my companies without physically being here – this _is_ the Twenty-first Century, after all! Although some of my staff I may ask to relocate with us..."

"You _have_ to ask Mrs. Stuckley to come, of course," I pointed out. "She's too good of a cook!"

He smiled at that – a wonderful, unfeigned smile that warmed me down to my toes. "Yes, of course. She has no family, either, so I'm sure she would be willing to make the move. But speaking of Mrs. Stuckley's excellent cooking... I would really rather not deprive you of the joys of eating... _solid_ food..."

There was something hesitant, almost apologetic in his demeanor that immediately put me on guard.

"What do you mean... '_solid_ food'?" I asked testily.

"Well, with your abdominal injury... if you were in a hospital, they would of course put you on a liquid diet so as to not strain your injured muscles when you're... defecating..."

Finch stood up as he said so and made his way to the wall of cabinets, where he pulled out a bed pan and some rubber tubing. My jaw dropped and I stared at him, speechless, comprehending what he intended to do. He shuffled over to another cabinet and pulled out a bag – much like the IV that Doherty had hooked me up to last night. I guessed it contained saline.

"I know this is a rather... uncomfortable procedure," Finch went on in a placating tone, "but in the interest of your quick recovery, as well as your ability to continue enjoying Mrs. Stuckley's cooking, I hope you can appreciate the necessity of doing this."

My mind was just beginning to come out of shock when I heard the floorboards creak – not over by Finch, but on the other side of the double doors, out in the hallway. From the weight of it, I knew that it had to be DeYoung. Finch was still rummaging in the cupboards for something and must not have noticed. In a split second, I made my decision: I would rather not be fed via blender for the duration of my recovery, so I would have to go through with this; if I had to endure an enema at Finch's hands, I would rather milk it for all the entertainment it was worth; and what better entertainment than to turn it into a series of sexual innuendos and embarrass Finch (who would be annoyed but oh-so-adorable) _and_ his big bodyguard (who had a monster-sized crush on him) at the same time?

Finch brought over all the paraphernalia and set them down on the table. I simply kept staring at him with a look of horror on my face, my mouth agape in a silent scream.

"All right... I'll roll you onto your side so you don't pull anything," Finch began in a gentle tone.

"Harold, _**no!**_ For the love of God and all that's _**holy!**_"

My outburst caught him completely by surprise.

"Calm down, Mr. Reese. You're overreacting," Finch said, calling me by my surname in an effort to make me realize how unprofessionally I was behaving.

"Overreacting? You think _this_ is overreacting? Here I am, helpless as a new-born infant, and you're proposing to shove tha—that _thing_ up my ass, and you think I'm _**overreacting?**_"

"Well, you're certainly _acting_ like a baby! It's not that big, and it will hardly hurt at all – especially compared to getting _shot_."

"Easy for _you_ to say – you're not the one getting that... that _monstrosity_ shoved up your ass!"

Finch looked at the half-inch diameter tube in his hand (it even had a nice, rounded end) and then back at me in disbelief.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, John! It's not like I'm going to stuff it in, _willy-nilly_," he said in exasperation. "I'll open you up with my fingers first, and use plenty of Vaseline – look, I have a whole, brand-new jar that I can use just for you! And for your information, I've had this done to me, _many_ times, so I think I know what I'm doing. I'll be very careful not to hurt you, and even if there _is_ some... slight discomfort, I can assure you that it will be well worth it in the end."

I switched my gaze, back and forth, between him and the tube, biting my lip as though to keep it from trembling. I swallowed hard before venturing in a small, wavering voice, "Promise?"

"Promise... what?" he asked, nonplussed.

"Promise you'll be... gentle? It's my... first time..."

"_Of course_, John! You know I would never hurt you. You just need to trust me on this."

"I recall someone saying... 'Trust isn't something I come by easily'..."

"I believe... I hope, anyway, that we've come a long way in establishing our relationship since then, John." He was trying to be patient, I could tell – and after all, he had no way of knowing if I _**did**_ have an irrational fear of tubing, or of having foreign objects shoved up my down chute.

"All right... Just... _please_... go slowly," I begged, giving him my best puppy-dog eyes.

"I will, I promise. Try to relax... Think of something else... Think of something... _pleasant_," he said, helping me roll onto my side.

"Like what?" I asked, clenching the rail on that side of the bed with both hands.

"Whatever makes you feel calm and relaxed," Finch soothed as he pulled up my bathrobe (his, actually) and pushed down the boxers (also his) to expose my ass. "What about the ocean? The waves rolling in, the water lapping at your feet, the sand between your toes..."

"That does sound nice... I can't remember the last time I was on a beach," I said with a sigh. I could hear him pulling on some surgical rubber gloves as he moved behind me.

"Once you get a bit better, John – well enough to sit in a wheelchair – we can go down to the beach," Finch promised, and I felt a slimy finger worm its way between my ass cheeks. "The water is frigid, so we'll have to bundle up against the wind, but... I find the fresh sea breeze invigorating, even in the winter..."

His finger was gently rubbing Vaseline onto and around my anal opening, then slipped inside, where it continued to slide around, getting my muscles to accept the intrusion.

"Mmm," I murmured. "That would be... lovely..."

"How am I doing so far? Does it hurt at all?"

"No... It's a bit... uncomfortable, but I'm all right," I panted, trying to sound sexy.

"I'll add some more Vaseline, just to be on the safe side," Finch said, and I felt another greasy digit join the fray.

"Oh! Ow..." I groaned as it pressed in alongside the other. I was rather surprised that he was using more than one – the tubing wasn't that thick, so it wasn't really necessary...

"I'm sorry, did that hurt?" Finch asked, pausing his movements.

"A little... Is that... just your finger?" I asked in return, although I knew the answer. I was beginning to suspect that he was actually _enjoying_ this... or maybe he was just playing along with my sexual innuendos... or rather, punishing me for them?

"Well, yes, but... _two_ fingers, actually," he replied without explanation. "How are you holding up?"

"All right, I guess..." I answered, and his fingers resumed their exploration of my anus. At any rate, it allowed me to ham it up for the eavesdropper outside the doors. "Mmm... I've never been... touched like this... before..." I moaned.

"Not even by your proctologist?" he countered dryly as he found my prostate and rubbed his finger in a tiny circular motion against it. The response of my body was immediate and strong.

"That's a... _different_ sort of touch, Harold," I informed him, needing no effort to sound sexy right now. I was as turned on as a damn power generator!

"I suppose... I think you're ready now, John," Finch said, withdrawing his fingers.

"Oh... All right." I couldn't help but be disappointed, but figured that he was tantalizing me by moving on to the actual enema – it felt more like torture.

"Take a deep breath..."

I felt the tube being inserted and let my groans spill out uncensored.

"Ohhh... Harold..."

"Too much? Shall I pull it out?"

"No... No, I'm fine. It feels so... _huge_, though..." I wailed for the benefit of Mr. DeYoung. The sad thing was, even though I knew it was only a tube and could feel its smooth, Vaseline-lubricated surface sliding in against my sphincter, it wasn't too hard to imagine that it _was_ Finch's cock, and the thought made my own exposed cock stand ramrod stiff at attention.

"Well, that's to be expected – your body isn't used to having foreign objects placed in it," Finch said matter-of-factly. "Are you all right? Can I put it in deeper?"

"Yes... Oh, yes, Harold... You can put it in all the way... I want to feel it... _completely_ inside of me..." I moaned, wishing it really were Finch's cock but trying to at least embarrass him with my insinuating expressions.

There was a slight noise on the other side of the double doors – Finch gasped, realizing for the first time that we had an audience. He might have been fine with playing along with me in private, but having one of his people listening in... that was a different matter.

"Deeper, Harold... please... I can take it, don't worry," I said in an effort to distract him.

"All right, then," Finch sighed. It was too late now, and he knew it.

"Oh! Ohhh... so hot..." I vamped, although the tube was only as warm as my internal body temperature.

"I'm going to pour this into you now, John," Finch said with a hard edge to his voice. "Try to curb your excitement, if you can."

Of course I wasn't about to stop now, as he opened up the valve and let the saline (which felt cool, almost cold, since it was only room temperature) spill into my colon.

"I can't... Oh! Oh, Harold... so hot... I can feel it... you're filling me up... all that hot, wet stuff... Mmm, Harold... _Harold!_"

I made my voice crescendo with each word as though I were feeling the full force of his climax. Finch pulled the tube out as soon as it had deposited all of the saline and plugged my lax hole by stuffing one of his gloves in it.

"I'm done, John... That wasn't worth all that fuss, was it? You were worried over nothing," he said wearily. "Now, I want you to hold it until I get back – try not to make a mess, please."

"I won't. I promise," I told him in a happy simper.

Finch threw away the empty saline pouch and tubing (Doherty had emptied the wastebasket of my clothes before he'd left) and replaced his one glove before returning to place the bed pan behind my ass.

"There... if you can just roll back... That should be just about right." He noticed my erection, but chose to ignore it. "Now you can let it all out, John – I'm sure it's been hard to wait," he said with a menacing glare. He knew damn well that I had played him.

"It _has_. But Harold... I need you to... squeeze me, with your hands..." I said, extending my hands to him and batting my eyelashes, unabashed by his wrath. "Your wonderful, warm, gentle hands..."

Finch sighed deeply before taking my hands in his and squeezing them with all of his strength. I knew he was trying to communicate his frustration at this situation, but there was still something warm – something affectionate – about his grip.

"Oh! Oh, it's coming..." I panted, as all that fluid moved around quite determinedly inside my intestines. "Oh, Harold... It's all coming out... every last drop of it... Oh! _Oh! __**Oh! OHHH!**_"

I hadn't eaten much yesterday, since I'd been so busy chasing down the girls and keeping them from getting killed – just a couple of the energy bars that I kept in the glove compartment – but I'd had a rather sizeable breakfast today as well as a second serving of soup at lunch, so whatever had been in my system had been pushed down fairly rapidly. Now it all left quite rapidly after getting doused and diluted. Of course it was a messy, smelly affair, but at least it hadn't taken much effort by my damaged stomach muscles to get the ball rolling. I smiled up innocently at Finch.

"You do nice work, Harold."

"I suppose you're pleased with yourself," he retorted gruffly, still miffed that he hadn't caught on sooner to the eavesdropper. Speaking of which, I could no longer sense the presence outside in the hall. I was a bit disappointed, but then again, I could only keep up the charade for so long.

"I'm pleased with _your_ performance, Harold," I told him, not letting go of his hands.

"I'm not done yet, _John_," he said with deliberate emphasis. "I still have to wipe your ass and take care of your shit."

"I'm sure you'll do just fine," I said, releasing him in order to pull myself over towards the railing. He wordlessly helped me before plucking two wet wipes from the container. Although he had every right to be irritated with me, his hands were gentle as they wiped my dirty ass, cleaning meticulously even into my crack. He chose to roll the table with the bed pan on it over to the bathroom – which had to be easier than trying to carry it without spilling its contents – and I listened to him dispose of my refuse while my naked ass dried off. I didn't have the energy right now to jack myself off, so I decided to let it go. It wouldn't be the first time I got blue balls and probably wouldn't be the last.

Finch re-emerged from the bathroom and started rummaging in the cupboards again. I watched curiously, then with increasing consternation, as he pulled out a black tube attached to a large device and rolled it over on the table.

"Well, since you're all cleaned out, anyway," he announced, "I might as well give you a colonoscopy and check for any polyps or irregularities. This is a state-of-the-art colonoscope with a 'third eye' retroscope – I just purchased it a couple of months ago and have been looking forward to using it. You get to be my first patient, John."

I stared at him with undisguised horror. The tube on this thing was _well_ over an inch in diameter. "A third eye _what?_"

"Retroscope," he calmly answered. "Everybody on my staff has a very good health care plan, but as I unfortunately cannot offer you the same level of care – and I do suspect that you wouldn't take advantage of it, even if I could – I'll have to monitor your physical condition myself."

I buried my face in the pillow. He really _was_ getting back at me for all of my teasing...

* * *

><p>PS: March is Colorectal Cancer Awareness Month!<p> 


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